Zoe Walker Does Skyrim
by Zoe Walker
Summary: Zoe Walker enters Bethesda's fantasy masterpiece, the Elder Scrolls series, by way of Skyrim. People are annoyed! Plot holes are poked at! Daedric Princes are blackmailed! Everybody except Sheogorath wishes that Zoe was somewhere, anywhere else! Things may explode. Things will explode. Technically a very minor cross-over with countless things. Zoe is well-travelled. On Hiatus.
1. Helgen Blows!

The first thought through my head was that whatever I'd been drinking last night, I should never touch again. Then, the rest of my thoughts caught up.

I couldn't be hung over, because I hadn't touched booze in over fifty years. Even if I had broken that streak for some reason, if I was hung over, the voices in my head would have been feeling it too. Since they seemed annoyingly chipper, that left one possible culprit for my misery: head trauma. Unlike diseases or chemical influences, I get that all to myself. Joy.

Eyes still closed, I took stock of my body's condition. My head was throbbing, and when I shifted my neck, dried blood flaked off. My legs responded normally, which was good. My right arm was tied to my torso with rough, fraying ropes. I tested them, but the bonds were too tight to break. Even worse, I didn't have enough feeling in my fingers to cast even a simple spell. That was less good. My left arm was gone. Slag!

Whoever had captured me had removed my prosthetic arm. While this would definitely make it easier for them to keep me captured, being one-handed and possibly concussed was not a great way to start my day. On the bright side, they left the connecting plate in my left shoulder, so if I could get or build a new arm I could attach it with little trouble. I didn't feel especially hungry, and didn't have any wounds aside from the massive lump on my head, but my armor and clothes had been removed. Instead of my usual garments, I seemed to be dressed in a scratchy burlap sack with arm holes torn in it and a pair of threadbare pants. Neither smelled like they had ever heard of soap and the lice living within were doubtlessly loving their new home. I was sitting on a rough splintery bench, which was swaying from side to side. Between that and the noises around me, I figured that I was in a horse-drawn carriage, being chauffeured to prison or trial with some fellow prisoners. Finally feeling ready to face my circumstances, I opened my eyes.

Sure enough, I was sitting in a cart with three other prisoners, travelling through a pine forest. Wherever we were was probably in close-ish to the poles of this planet, but it was definitely during what passed for summer in this frigid dump. Have I mentioned that I HATE the cold? I do, and so do the voices in my head. When I started studying magic, I focused on pyromancy for several very good reasons, and that was definitely one of them. Another cart with four more captives was rolling along in front of me. The carts' drivers and the mounted guards around me were all wearing some kind of Roman-style leather armor, and their shields sported an unfamiliar crest of a silver dragon. One of the other prisoners in my cart was dressed like I was, but the other two were wearing some kind of uniform. A blue, quilted tunic over light links of poorly made chain mail, by the look of it. I suppose they couldn't afford anything better, but it at least looked warm. The voices idly wondered how hard it would be for me to get one. They both had blonde hair, and looked kind of similar. One of them had a beard and a gag on, and one of them was stubbly and could speak. Stubble soldier noticed that I was awake, and gave me an appraising look.

"Hey," he said to me. A real quick wit, that one. One of the voices suggested I bite his ankles off, but I ruthlessly quashed my errant thoughts. "Are you alright? The Imperials picked you up trying to cross the border. Same as us, and that thief over there" Us probably meant the uniform guys, and Mr. burlap was therefore the thief. The thief gave stubble soldier an angry look.

"This is all you Stormcloaks' fault!" he accused stubble soldier, "the Empire was nice and lazy before you came along. I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell by now!" I mentally filed that information. If I ever needed to sell a stolen horse here, Hammerfell, wherever that was, was the place to go. Gag soldier grunted furiously at the notion that the Stormcloaks (what a pretentious name!) were at fault for the thief getting captured, and the thief gave him a look of disgust. "What's his problem?" the thief asked stubble soldier.

"Watch your tongue!" stubble soldier exclaimed, whipping himself into a self-righteous fury. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim!" That's bad for me and the thief. Really bad. If they captured the rebel leader of a rival faction in a war of succession and us along with him, then chances are that the Imperials will execute us all just to be safe. The thief paled, and opened his mouth to say something that was probably cowardly, self-serving, and stupid, so I cut him off.

"So, what you're saying is," I began with a huge 'eat slag' plastered on my face, "That you're an idiot who is blindly following an even bigger idiot." The cart driver, who had opened his mouth to shut us up, closed his jaws with an audible snap. "The fact is," I continued, "You all are obviously incompetent. If you weren't, you would be in one of your strongholds, rather than gallivanting about the countryside with only five guards, waiting for Imperial with an ambush and a little ambition to scoop you up. I have one arm and a head wound, and I could come up with a better plan than that. So because you don't have two brain cells to rub together, we're all bound for the chopping block." Stubble soldier worked his mouth open and shut a couple of times in obvious shock at my words while the thief stifled a dark chuckle and gag soldier, apparently Ulfric Stormcloak, glared at me. It's not like he could do anything else. The driver practically doubled over in a fit of giggles, before putting on an artificially serious face when an officer in higher quality armor gave him a sharp look. As the Stormcloaks, and yes that name is still incredibly lame, glared daggers at me we passed through the gates of a small, roughshod, feudal-looking town.

"General Tullius, Sir. The headsman is waiting." An Imperial inside the gates called out to an old guy at the front of the column with fancy, gold-inlayed armor. I guess the stupidity isn't limited to the Stormcloaks if an Imperial general is just as willing to expose himself. Maybe they use lead pipes for their water or something. Townsfolk muttered as we passed. I blew them a raspberry. The guards and the prisoners gave me a funny look. If you can't beat them, annoy them. Sometimes they get irritated enough to make a mistake.

The carts soon stopped in a courtyard, in front of a bloody chopping block. An officer in heavier Roman-style armor stood next to a bear of a masked axeman dressed in black and an old woman in a robe behind the block. If I had to guess, those were the headsman and a priestess to give us our last rites. I didn't intend to need either, but still. The officer was probably the only real legionary in the group, because she was wearing metal armor. The other Imperials, in lighter leather armor, were probably either scouts or auxiliaries, not front-line troops. My opinion of Ulfric took a nosedive, since the Imperials didn't even need to deploy their elite soldiers to capture him. The Imperials shoved us out of a wagon, and lined us up. Two auxiliaries went to process the prisoners in the other wagon, while the officer and an auxiliary with a book walked over to process us. "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm." called the auxiliary, sounding like a bored schoolteacher. Ulfric grunted at him, and then walked off to stand in front of the block. "Ralof of Riverwood." Stubble soldier raised his chin and gave the auxiliary a disgusted look before walking to join Ulfric. I guess stubble soldier, Ralof, and the auxiliary knew each other. "Lokir of Roricstead." The thief, who had been getting steadily paler, gave a start.

"You can't do this to me!" he whined, "We're not rebels! Tell them we aren't with you!" The Stormcloaks from the next wagon over gave him a blank look. With a cry of "You're not going to kill me!" the thief put on an impressive turn of speed. However, he wasn't fast enough to escape the arrow that a guard put through his butt. He lived like a coward, and he died like one too. I woulda felt sorry for him if I'd known him well enough to care. Instead, I was mostly just glad he tried to run. Lokir had shown me the key to escaping, and I would honor his sacrifice by doing just that. After all, the thief had given me a gift of knowledge; if I tried to run, the Imperials would give me an arrow. Idea.

Taking a deep breath, I expanded my magical senses. Most laypeople don't know this, but the practice of magic isn't limited to throwing around fire and lightning and pickles, although that stuff's certainly on the table. Also, I'm hungry. An experienced mage's body is steeped in magical power from long years of practice. As a master of magics of fire, metal, and time, I have several advantages over a normal person. Fire magic renders me immune to the effects of extreme heat. Metal magic lets me sense the presence of nearby metal, handy for pointing out concealed weapons or ambushes. Time magic renders me immune to the effects of age, and grants the ability to see the future. I didn't exactly reach my 25,142 birthday through diet and exercise alone. All of this happens without any use of power on my account.

That said, there are some limits to this, especially my precognition. Generally, I keep it at a low level, no more than three to five seconds into the future. The further ahead one looks, the greater the future one sees varies based on one's actions in the present. Look too far ahead, or lose focus, and one can be driven mad by the overwhelming abundance of information. The last thing I need is to become less sane, so 30 seconds ahead is my absolute limit without extensive meditation to prepare. If I could do it more easily, I probably wouldn't have been captured (Not that I remember how I got here. The concussion probably screwed up my short-term memory.). As I expanded my senses, I allowed one of the voices I usually keep bottled up tightly to increase its influence over my actions.

"Wait a minute," the auxiliary said, scanning his book, "You're not on the list. Who are you?"

"This isn't fair!" I whined, allowing a manic expression to cross my face. It must have been effective, because both Imperials took a step back. "I want one too!" The Imperials exchanged shaken glances. Whatever they had been expecting me to say, this clearly wasn't it, and they had no idea what I was talking about. "An arrow!" I clarified. "I want an arrow. That other guy got one and I didn't and that's not fair and I want one!" The Imperials looked at me like I'd just lost my mind. Hah. It's been gone for eons.

"You… want us to shoot you with an arrow," the auxiliary said slowly, as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Because we shot him dead for trying to run away and you feel left out."

"Yes!" I clarified, flashing him a winning smile, "Gimmie-gimmie-gimmie-gimmie-gimmie-gimmie-gimmie-gimmie!"

"We're not going to shoot you in cold blood!" he exclaimed, doubtlessly full of honor and indignation, and chivalry and all that scrap. I would make a comment about hook, line, and sinker if what I was saying wasn't disturbingly close to how I actually wanted to act.

"Why not?" I questioned, honestly puzzled.

"We can't just shoot you!" the auxiliary shot back frantically, "You're a prisoner of war. It wouldn't be right. We have to follow the articles of war."

"Soooo," I reasoned, "You are perfectly willing and happy to have somebody chop me up with an axe, but you won't shoot me. There is something very wrong with your morals." Can't believe I just said that. Oh, the doublethink.

"I'm not even sure that we want to execute you," the auxiliary said, "You aren't on the list, so you aren't wanted by the Empire for any major crimes that we know of. We won't execute you for no reason. Who are you, anyway?"

"Forget the list, Hadvar" the officer said, "I'm tired of her drivel. If she was captured with Ulfric, she's probably a traitor too. She goes to the block."

"I'm giving you one last chance," I warned my captors. "We can do this the easy way or the fun way. You shoot me now, or I get shot later, but that arrow will be mine!" They ignored me. "Fun way it is! Hah-HAH!" With that exclamation, I charged forward, surprising them so much that they froze for a second. "An opening!" I shouted, and used the opportunity to jump up toward the auxiliary, Hadvar. I got a brief foothold on his list, another on his shoulder, and a third on his face as I kicked and free-ran my way over his falling, stunned body. Everybody around me froze as I charged the archer that had shot Lokir, laughing with the simple joy reserved for children and lunatics. A rhythmic, thudding noise, like air being displaced by a sail, began sounding from somewhere in the distance, but I ignored it. It wouldn't help me get that arrow, after all. The officer definitely had something on the ball. Even if the others weren't, she had to be a real legionary.

"What are you waiting for," the officer bellowed, "Shoot her! Now!" I grinned and slowed my pace slightly, giving the shaken archer I was charging just enough time to draw an arrow and fire it at me. I already knew how this would turn out. As the arrow leapt from the archer's bow, I twisted my body at just the right angle, and with a thud the arrow struck my bindings, shearing through several of the thickest strands. I flexed my arm, and the weakened ropes fell away, allowing me to smash my open palm into the archer's face. As he went down like a sack of bricks, I grasped his gladius and pulled it from its sheath, the short blade gleaming in the light. The thudding grew louder, but I figured it was probably my heartbeat. I knew I should have stretched out my legs before showing that Hadvar guy the usefulness of parkour. I turned to face the crowd while Imperial and Stormcloak alike stared at me in unconcealed astonishment.

"Gotchyer sword! Ah-hahahahahaha!" They stared some more. "You can't tell me you didn't consider doing that," I admonished the Stormcloaks, "or maybe you just aren't as cool as I am. Actually, it's probably the second one." I was so focused on the Imperials, and captors and prisoners alike were so focused on me, that we almost missed the dragon.

The dragon dropped down from the sky, and landed on a tall tower behind the execution block. He was big and black, and his scaly, armored hide was covered in knobs and spikes. His eyes glowed red, lit from within by his internal fires. He opened his mouth and roared something in a guttural language that I understood none of, and the clear sky clouded over. The clouds turned red, and flaming meteorites began to rain from the sky, striking at random. One of them actually struck the dragon, but bounced off without leaving a scratch. The dragon roared something else, and a blast of pure force scattered the Stormcloaks and Imperials in the courtyard, blowing the legionary officer through a house. I decided that was my cue to leave.

I quickly scanned my surroundings, and my eyes lingered on the hole that the officer had punched in that house. The house was on fire, which tickled and licked warmly against my skin as I jumped through the hole. Pausing to check the captain for useful gear, I was disgusted to find that she had basically burst on impact, and disappointed that the leather straps on her armor had already burned away. A pity, because some armor would have been really nice. I dashed out the other side to find Hadvar the auxiliary coaxing a young boy away from a wounded older man, probably his father. As the dragon swooped around for a landing, Hadvar grabbed the struggling boy, and ran for cover right before the dragon landed in front of where he had been seconds ago and bathed the area in dragon-fire. Hadvar handed the boy off to an old, armored man, and gave him a few quick orders. "Gunjar, take the boy and get as many of the townspeople to safety as you can!" Gunjar gave Hadvar a shaky nod, and darted away. "I'm going to find General Tullius and join the defense." The Imperial then turned to me, and reflexively flinched, hand going to his facial bruise, shaped exactly like my heel. "What do you want now, lunatic?!" he spat.

"I don't know about you, but I'd rather not be dragon chow," I told him. "I'm leaving. If you wish to continue living, you ought to do the same. You're no good to anyone if you get incinerated or digested. I saw that dragon shrug off a hit from one of those meteorites falling from the sky. If he could ignore that, nothing in this town is going to even scratch him."

Hadvar pondered my words for a few seconds, and to his credit quickly came up with a workable plan. "With his wings and speed, that dragon will be able to pick off most of the people who flee from the gates. There's an escape tunnel underneath the keep. We should head there, and escape underground." I nodded in agreement with his statements. A tunnel seemed much preferable to being picked off by a dragon on the wing.

The two of us dodged through the wreckage of the town, and made it to the doors of the keep, passing by the smoldering corpse of Ralof. Evidently, he had taken a meteorite hit, as most of his chest was just gone. Quickly, we ducked inside. I took a blanket off of one of the beds inside the keep barracks for warmth, and we made a dash for the exit, avoiding the shell-shocked Imperials and Stormcloaks fleeing the dragon. Fairly soon, but not soon enough for my tastes, we burst from the entrance of a large cave, which the escape tunnel connected to, into the dim sunlight of Skyrim, as this land was called according to Hadvar. The Imperial soldier gave me a tired smile as we stood panting, watching the black dragon wing his way north, into the distance. "Thank you for your help," he stated tiredly, "I don't think I could have made it without you. The closest town to here is Riverwood. My uncle Alvor is the blacksmith. He'll be able to help us out." The soldier glanced at my purloined blanket and borrowed sword with a wry grin, and added, "maybe he'll give you some warmer clothes." As the two of us staggered, exhausted, down a nearby cobbled road, a signpost caught my eye. An arrow in the direction we were heading had the word 'Riverwood' written on it, and another pointing back behind us stated 'Helgen'. Helgen, I thought to myself with a sense of finality. That place blows.


	2. Fetch Quest!

After escaping Helgen and its scaly visitor, Hadvar and I made our way down one of the poorly cobbled roads that seem to be the norm in Skyrim, with the auxiliary in the lead. According to him, the tunnel under Helgen popped us out close to Riverwood, a small villiage home to Hadvar's uncle, the blacksmith Alvor. Both Hadvar and I were exhausted by our ordeal, and we barely talked on the way back. The two of us definitely attracted a lot of stares as we staggered into the sleepy little town. Hadvar's armor was torn and worn, and he had lost the top half of his shield to an optimistic Stormcloak escapee during our flight through the keep. I was still carrying the gladius I had stolen from the archer during my aborted bid for freedom, but the house fire I had walked through had scorched my rags well past immodesty, and both of us were covered in rock dust, soot, and minor wounds. I considered bursting out in song, just to complete the image, but my body decided that it had a better plan, and I passed out instead.

When I came to, I was lying in a warm but scratchy bed, significantly cleaner than before with most of my wounds inexpertly bandaged. When I sat up, a lined, tanned woman in a simple dress approached me. The lady of the house, perhaps. "Are you alright?" she asked with a warm and slightly raspy voice, "I'm Sigurd, Alvor's wife. I'm glad to see you awake. You gave us quite the scare, fainting like that. Hadvar told us what happened, up at Helgen. You saved his life, and any friend of Hadvar's is a friend of ours. I could scarcely believe my ears. A dragon, just like in the old tales. I suppose if you two had been in better condition I might have thought you made the whole thing up." I zeroed in on the most important-sounding part of this statement. Knowledge is power, after all, and I knew nothing of Skyrim.

"Old tales about dangerous things have a nasty habit of being based in half-remembered fact," I told her wearily. This wouldn't be the first time a discounted prophecy of doom had come back to bite someone in the butt. "What can you tell me of these old tales? If dragons are flying about wrecking fortresses, there might be useful information in them."

"I don't know what I can tell you," Sigurd admitted cautiously, "Everybody knows these stories. Besides, that's all they are: stories"

"You may not have noticed," I snarked, "but I'm not exactly from Skyrim. I've never heard these stories. Besides, Hadvar and I's scaly mutual acquaintance suggests that these 'stories' are in fact quite possibly extremely important. Cough up the info and maybe I'll think of a way we can all end up alive once things start going even further into the scrap heap. Please." Sigurd gave me a funny look, which I ignored, and dutifully shared what she knew.

"Long ago, the dragons ruled Skyrim, and held all men under their dominion. When the men rebelled, the dragons brutally slaughtered any resistance. The dragons had the power of the voice. When they spoke, things listened. Fire, magic, the very world itself would bend themselves to the dragons' voices. The goddess of the sky, Kyne, took pity on man and gifted us with the power of the voice ourselves, so that we might defend ourselves and men and dragons fought a great war. However, while ordinary dragons and men with the voice were on an even footing, the dragons were led by a greater being. Alduin, the World Eater, was the first dragon and the greatest of them all. He was created by Akatosh, the dragon-god of time, to devour the world at the twilight of the world. Since his destiny was to destroy the world, he could not be killed before he completed his task. Akatosh too pitied man, for Alduin knew and knows no equal in voice or might. The dragon-god gifted some men with the soul of a dragon, that they might shout naturally and instinctively as dragons do. These dragonborn were capable of destroying a dragon completely by devouring its very soul, and the war turned in man's favor. Eventually, three great dragonborn heroes called the Tongues defeated Alduin in a great battle atop Skyrim's tallest mountain, the Throat of the World. With Alduin defeated, the other dragons were quickly put down. The legends say that Alduin will only return when the world is destined to end for good. They haven't been seen since, until now."

"Then, I think I know what my goals are, at least for now," I mused, "Step one: get decent gear. I am tired of being poorly armed and naked. Step two: replace my arm. Being one-handed is just annoying" Sigurd gave me a shocked glance, like she thought I was crazy but was too polite to say it. Since she was right about the insanity, I ignored it. "Step five: figure out how dragons are coming back, and if Alduin is still kicking. If he is, I need to end him. I can't have the world ending while I'm standing on it. That would suck. Step six: find a way to permanently kill dragons. This probably means finding a dragonborn, which will be difficult because with my luck they are all extinct." Sigurd started to confirm this statement, then gave me a confused glare.

"What happened to steps three and four?" she asked me. Her tone made it obvious she was a mother, and used to taking no nonsense from anyone.

"Murphy's law states that everything that can go wrong will. If things are as critical as they sound, Murphy is going to have a field day." I explained, "It is easier to prepare for the inevitable disaster than to hope that everything goes perfectly right. Steps three and four will be used to deal with these complications, but that doesn't really matter right now. They are called unforeseen consequences for a reason, so I'm going to focus on what I can deal with right now. At some point, I'm going to need reliable allies to make this all happen. I think that taking on an army of dragons might be a bit strenuous, even for me. Maybe Hadvar will help me out. He seems like a death or glory sort of guy." Hadvar picked that moment to walk up from the house's cellar and looked over curiously at the sound of his name. "Hey, Hadvar!" I called out, "How would you like to help scrape together a merry band of slightly unstable badasses, hunt down giant, flaming, magic reptiles, and mount their heads on a wall?" He seemed shocked into silence by this, so I tried to convince or at least bribe him into thinking this would be a good idea. "Come on, man! It's a great idea. Death, glory, riches, deeds worthy of song and legend… Well, hopefully not in that order, because that would involve undead and I hate undead, but still! We could save the world and kill dragons. How could you live with yourself if you turned that down?"

"I don't know about saving the world," Hadvar responded with trepidation, "I don't think we can, not if our enemies are dragons. We're not dragonborn. We're not great heroes like Tiber Septim or Ysgramor. We stand no chance against one dragon, let alone an army of them or Alduin himself. That said, I didn't enlist in the legion because I was a coward. Riverwood is defenseless against a dragon. We should get word to the Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun to send some soldiers to help defend the town."

"It's not like I was suggesting we run out and pick a fight with a dragon right now," I reassured Hadvar, "I'm not that crazy. But, you're right about Riverwood's defenses. A few organized bandits could seriously damage this place, let alone a dragon."

"Exactly," Hadvar eagerly agreed. I suppose that he was happy to have a helpful plan of action that didn't involve suicide by dragonfire. "Are you going to come along? Ordinarily, I wouldn't want a crippled woman anywhere near danger like this, but after those moves you pulled back at Helgen I suspect you might actually be more dangerous than I am."

"I don't know about that," I said diplomatically, "but back at Helgen I was seriously restricted. I was using maybe a quarter of what I prefer to bring to fights." Hadvar looked curious, so I elaborated. "If I had a prosthetic arm, even if it wasn't my original replacement limb, that makes for another quarter. Being well-rested, well fed, and not suffering from a head wound lets me actually cast my spells, which is another quarter. Finally, being properly equipped would give me the rest of what I'm missing. You wouldn't happen to know what happened to my arm, would you? All that's left is this connecting plate, which will let me attach a jury-rigged replacement if I need to, but I'd prefer my original."

"I was there when we captured you, and you only had one arm then. You were buck naked too, and screaming incoherently. Even that, and you knocked out three soldiers with your bare hand before I hit you on the head. It was like you were a completely different person," Hadvar looked me directly in the eyes as he said this, "And now you tell me you're a wizard." He sighed. "I have a homicidal wizard who's been touched by Sheogorath in my house. I invited her in. Please don't turn us all into rodents."

"Why would I do that?" I asked, "You aren't trying to kill me. Poor impulse control and creepy voices that no one else hears does not translate to random violence. Often. Plus, I can't transmute people."

"What?" Hadvar eloquently expressed his confusion.

"I'm not going to kill you, your family, or anyone else in Riverwood, no matter what the voices say," I stated flatly, "I like you people. I can't turn things into other things. My magic doesn't work like that. I can make fire. I can control fire. I can move metal stuff, if it isn't too heavy. I can control lightning. I see things a few seconds before they actually happen. I can teleport about… thirty feet. That is pretty much the limit of my magical powers. Dangerous? Yes. Unmanageable, town-destroying, or super-scary? No. I'm not one of those scary, subtle people. I blow stuff up. That's about it. I am not going to hurt you people on purpose, and especially not with magic." I can't actually teleport. My 'teleport' spell stops time for about ten seconds so that I can bend the laws of physics for a few seconds or appear to teleport. However, this is somewhat complicated, and I didn't want to explain it to him. Explanation or not, Hadvar visibly relaxed.

"That isn't very different from what the Imperial battlemages can do," he informed me and his relatives, and they relaxed too, "You are touched by Sheogorath, the Prince of Madness, but the fact that you actually admit it makes me think you much more trustworthy than a, well, normal insane person. These are insane times, and you actually want to help. Plus, you can light people on fire with magic. I'd be a fool to turn you away. And, I think my uncle can help us get you up closer to full power. He is the town smith, after all." Alvor gave Hadvar a look, like he still wasn't sure I was safe to be around. Hadvar shook his head in exasperation and threw an arm around my shoulders, jostling me like an old friend. "Come on, Uncle. I need her help. We need her help. Divines, the whole world might need her help!"

"If you're sure," Alvor offered cautiously, "What sort of arms and armor do you prefer, girl?"

"Nothing too heavy," I responded. As a skilled smith myself, I was definitely in my comfort zone talking shop, "I'll need a blade that I can use in one hand. I'd prefer steel, but if you have something better I wouldn't say no. As far as armor goes, I don't have the strength for something really heavy, so full plate armor is out. But, I'm not freakishly flexible either, so I don't need full range of movement. In the middle of the weight and protection spectrum is best."

"I have just the thing," the smith stated with relish. He went down into his cellar and came back up with a full set of armor and a long thin bundle wrapped in a thick cloth. "I made this armor for a thane of Whiterun, a great hero of the city about ten years back," Alvor explained, "But the lady died, eaten by trolls, before I could give it to her. Still, it's adjustable and hasn't weakened with time." He held out some cloths to me as well. "Sigurd donated these spare underclothes. They're a bit threadbare, but better than nothing, eh?" Considering that I wasn't really wearing anything at the moment, I gratefully donned the undergarments, and then the armor. Embarrassingly, Alvor had to punch new holes in the armor's straps to keep it from hanging loosely off my slender frame. As much as I might wish otherwise, if I haven't put on any more muscle by now, I won't be bulking up in the future either. Alvor, meanwhile, began unwrapping the bundle. "You are right about the blades, girl. For a dangerous task such as the one I know you are about to embark on, dragging my nephew beside you, ordinary steel will not be enough. I got these in payment from a scholar passing through Riverwood on his way south. He had looted an old dwarven ruin, but his cart full of scrap lost a wheel just outside the town." The smith finished unwrapping a pair of identical sheathed swords that gleamed golden in the faint light. "These blades were made by the dwarves in the ancient times. Simple work, but strong and still sharp, even after all these years. Blades like these are not meant to molder in a cellar any more than they were in some Dwemer vault! You each should take one. May they protect you in the dark times ahead." I gratefully took a sword, and Hadvar did the same. The Imperial also replaced his damaged gear with armor made of hardened leather and a steel-banded buckler. He kept his legion-issue bow and quiver, thought. We left our standard issue Imperial swords with Alvor. If they were good enough for government work, they were clearly untrustworthy. Hadvar and I said our goodbyes to Alvor and his family and took off North, toward Whiterun. As we crossed a stone bridge to the North of Riverwood, I paused for a moment to catch a glimpse of my reflection in the river that probably gave the village its name.

My green eyes flashed, catching the light of the afternoon underneath my usual mess of flaming red hair. My facial scars, a long thin one just under my right eye and a set of patchy bumps dotting the space above my left eyebrow, were already becoming surrounded by freckles from frequent exposure to the sun. My armor gleamed dully in the light, steel arm-guards, greaves, helmet, and mail pieces offset by the hard, brown leather connecting the mail sections on my torso and protecting the rest of my arms and legs. Best of all, the insides were lined with fur, so that even with the metal my new armor was warm. Yep. Even covered in dirt and freckles and barbarian clothes, I look good. Still got it. Oh yeah.

The trip to Whiterun was relatively uneventful, and we soon were in the shadows of the city's massive, crumbling walls. Whiterun was definitely a very strong fortress once, but I don't think it had been well maintained. Parts of the wall were actually falling down! I think that a single dragon would probably have no trouble levelling the place, and it was far better protected than Riverwood! At least there were guards, two of whom stopped us at the main city gate.

"Halt!" One of them commanded me. Since the guards were wearing matching uniforms with full face helmets, I couldn't tell them apart at all. If we ever needed to infiltrate, that could come in handy. Someone hasn't been reading the Evil Overlord List. "City's closed with the dragons about. We can't let you in. Take your business elsewhere!"

I thought for a second, grinned, and opened my mouth. Hadvar, sensing trouble, grabbed me and clamped one of his meaty arms over my face before I could speak. He's a smart man. I knew I kept him around for something. "We have news about the dragon attacks," Hadvar explained. The man was using diplomacy! Where did his sense of humor die, and how can I bring it back? Outrageous. "The Jarl needs to hear what we have to say. It's vitally important."

"Alright," said the other guard reluctantly, "We'll let you in. This time. I've got my eye on you." The guards unlocked the gate, and Hadvar dragged me inside, keeping me gagged until the gates closed, then releasing me to gasp for air.

"Sorry about that," the Imperial apologized, "I figured you were about to say something insulting to them, based on how you acted in Helgen. You did say you had poor impulse control."

"You are absolutely right," I confirmed, giving him a cheesy thumbs-up, "Now, let's go mock a jarl."

"I'm not sure that is a good idea," Hadvar cautioned.

"Of course it is," I shot back cheerily, "If he's a good ruler, he'll appreciate receiving honesty without having to hire a fool first. It saves money. If he's a bad ruler, we don't want his people in Riverwood anyway, and I'll set his house on fire. But, first, I have some business to attend to." With that, I pried a cobblestone up from the street, weighed it briefly in my hand, and tossed it behind my back, over the wall. A yell and a metallic ringing noise filtered through the thick gate, followed by the thump of a body hitting the ground. Hadvar gave me another funny look, and I gazed back unrepentant. "What? That guard totally deserved that. Plus, he was wearing a helmet. He'll be fine. And it was funny." Hadvar looked like he didn't quite buy that, but he didn't bring it up as we walked through Whiterun. Things went well, and incident-free, until we reached a large, open area with a big dead tree in it. Off to one side, a preacher raved about some guy named Talos in front of a big statue. He was annoying. Really annoying. Still, he provided a valuable lesson in the Whiterun judicial system when I shoved a fire spell up his nose and set it off. I may have over-reacted slightly, in retrospect, but all's well that ends well. Apparently, murdering someone in broad daylight with magic in the middle of Whiterun in front of children nets you a fine of forty gold, and then the guards offer to buy you a drink whenever you are in town. Huh. That seemed rather… lenient. Hadvar paid the fine, because I didn't have any money. As we continued our way up toward the Jarl's palace, he lectured me about how I really shouldn't walk up to random people and murder them, but I caught him smiling when he thought I wasn't looking. Several passer-by walked up to us and offered us money, flowers, or favors. I don't think people liked that preacher very much.

The Jarl's palace, which I heard was called Dragonsreach from a fellow pedestrian, sat on top of the highest part of the city, and was clearly fancier than all the other buildings in the city put together. I idly wondered how they replaced roofing tiles when the roof was at least fifteen feet off the ground, since I hadn't seen any ladders around. I also wondered if the jarl would let me go up there and bean someone with one of those tiles, just for the giggles. Clay roofing tiles are the most undervalued weapon in the history of warfare. Seriously, those things are lethal.

Hadvar and I pushed through the massive doors of Dragonsreach and walked into a huge hall that was if anything even more opulently decorated than the exterior. When we walked up into the main hall a slim woman confronted us. She had red hair and eyes, skin the color of volcanic ash, and pointed ears. This led me to conclude she was probably a dark elf. "What is the meaning of this interruption? The Jarl is not receiving visitors!" she questioned us belligerently. She didn't even know who we were and she already wants to fight. What an idiot. We could have had something important to say, like, well, this.

"There are big honking scaly creatures knocking over towns for fun," I gave her my best 'talking to stupid people' voice. I have to use it with depressing frequency. "There is a massive war of succession going on and both sides wouldn't mind securing Whiterun by force. Bandits are apparently everywhere, and they must be pretty formidable because the guards just ignore them unless they invade a major city. Oh, and I kasploded some guy's head out there in front of about ten witnesses and nobody really cared. Someone should probably clean that up before it starts to smell, by the way. I'd say that if your guards let us in, with all the crises going around, whatever we have to say is pretty much guaranteed to be more important than your little paranoid hissy fit. The Jarl evidently isn't keeping you around for quick thinking." When she opened her mouth to say something else I cut her off. "I so do not care about whatever you have to say, and if you are as stupid as you act, nobody else does either. Go sulk in a corner or something. You lackey. The important people have to talk. Oh, and maybe read a book while you're at it. It certainly couldn't hurt." Everyone else in the room, the two bratty little kids and the three big, strapping Scandinavian-looking men near the throne, stared at me in blank astonishment, mouths hanging open. The elf chick turned several shades paler and started to shake in fury. I patted her on the shoulder as I stepped past her, sheer audacity saving me from a violent response. As I passed I picked her pocket, retrieving a small piece of dried fruit, which I flicked at the beefiest of the guys. It bounced off his nose and fell into his open mouth. "Hole in one! Three points!" Some things are more worthy of celebration than others. Elf lady turned around, trying to draw her sword to skewer me, honor and self-restraint subsumed by blind rage. I stopped walking and took a step back, right into her face, trapping her sword arm against her chest, and then trod heavily on her left foot. She cursed and reflexively raised her leg to clutch at the unexpected wound. However, since I was still standing six inches from her she instead bashed her knee into my armored butt with a ringing noise. Overbalanced by the mostly self-inflicted situation she collapsed to the ground cursing in a language I didn't speak. I ignored her even as she switched to suggestions in English for me to have sex with myself and my ancestors at the same time. That sounds boring, and physically improbable. Instead of responding with more snark, I addressed the guys at the throne. "Now that that minor distraction is dealt with, maybe we can get down to business."

"That was my housecarl!" Exclaimed the guy in the fanciest robes, "How dare you come in here and beat up one of my most trusted advisors for no reason at all? I should have you executed!"

"Stop thinking with your pecs for a second, Norse boy," I ordered him. Clearly still in shock, his mouth closed with an audible snap. Definitely still got it. "First off, did you or did you not see her pull a magic sword on me. All I did was take a step backwards. Anything else was her fault, not mine. Secondly, she was endangering you all with her behavior."

"Explain," said fancy dress guy.

"Well, as I said before, what if Whiterun was under attack. What if enemies were breaking in the gate or a dragon had set the palace on fire," I reasoned, fixing him with a serious look, "The delay while she interrogated us could mean the difference between life and death for everyone in here, possibly the city, especially with all the crises going around. Generally, if someone comes in, passing all the other screening procedures out there, fixing to tell the Jarl something important, isn't it better to hear what they have to say before you make a judgment one way or the other. 'Cause the Jarl really needs to hear this. Also, that lady clearly hasn't had anyone deflate her ego in a very long time. It was good for her. Trust me." The guy who I had fruited, who was wearing lacquered scale mail and carrying a claymore, snickered quietly, and then glanced at his companions. One of them, a balding guy who was easily the thinnest of the bunch, looked appalled at my behavior. But fancy dress guy's shoulders shook. It took me a moment to realize he was chuckling.

"I am the Jarl," he said in a commanding voice, "These are my trusted advisors: my brother Hrongar," he indicated fruit guy, "My steward, Proventus Avenicci," he pointed to the balding guy, "and you are already well-acquainted with my housecarl Irileth. While she might not forgive you for a while, I can certainly see your point. If someone is able to get this far, their news had better be important or my guards are totally incompetent. So, what is this news that is so important?" Upon hearing this, Hadvar took the lead.

"Please forgive my… associate," he apologized, "She is touched by Sheogorath. She also recently suffered a debilitating head wound. You know how it is. That said, if it makes you feel any better, lady housecarl, when the Imperials captured her and Ulfric Stormcloak about a day ago, they put them in the same cart. The lady laid into him far worse than she did you. So, it isn't just you. She just has issues with keeping strong opinions to herself."

"You actually told off Ulfric Stormcloak like that?" asked Irileth incredulously.

"Oh, yeah," I confirmed with a blinding grin, "His tactics, manners, minions, and personal grooming habits left something to be desired, so I informed him of it. In great detail, with sound effects. Then I kicked this guy in the face, and made friends with him." I pointed to Hadvar.

"So," Irileth replied, "You kicked him in the face because you wanted to befriend him."

"The two were sort of unrelated," I replied, "but come to think of it I usually end up fighting most of the people I befriend at some point near the beginning of our relationship. It saves time later."

"Does that mean you were trying to make nice with me?" she asked, "I do not think that is the best way to go about it. People might get the wrong idea."

"Why?" I questioned, "You wanna join our merry band of dysfunctional, world-savin' dragonslayers?" Hadvar groaned and cradled his face in his hands.

"We are not a band of dragonslayers," he mumbled from behind a barrier of digits, "In order to be dragonslayers, one has to first kill a dragon. We have not done so because that would be suicide and stop getting off topic!" He gave me the exasperated glare I had already come to know so well. "Jarl Balgruuf, we come with grave news. My associate and I have come from the ruins of Helgen. The fortress was razed to the ground by a dragon during an attempt by the Empire to execute several important prisoners, among them Ulfric Stormcloak. Last we saw of it, the dragon was headed in this direction. We are here on behalf of Riverwood, pleading for the Jarl's aid. If a dragon attacks, Riverwood will be defenseless. Please send some guards to at least help the townsfolk evacuate if disaster strikes."

"We cannot do that!" exclaimed Avenicci nervously, "the Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation! He'll assume that we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack him."

"As much as I value your advice, you are in the wrong here, Avenicci," the Jarl stated firmly, "I cannot stand idle while a dragon or dragons fly about destroying entire fortresses. Riverwood could be next! Irileth!" The elf approached Balgruuf and stood at attention. "Prepare a detachment of guardsmen to go to Riverwood. Make sure to send enough to cover the town, but keep the numbers low. We don't want Jarl Siddgeir to get antsy, now do we?" Irileth saluted, and marched out the doors, presumably to carry out the Jarl's bidding. As she passed me, she spoke to me in a low voice.

"While I am honored that a great master of the butt attack such as yourself considers me a worthy dragonslayer, my loyalty is to Whiterun above all else." She gave me a wry smile, "If you should ever manage to face a dragon, put in a few cuts for me, eh?"

"Sure thing," I agreed easily. Hadvar, meanwhile, was still talking to the Jarl.

"These are dark times," the Imperial stated, "My friend and I are prepared to help defend Whiterun in whatever capacity you require with our… unique talents. Surely there is something that capable adventurers such as ourselves could help you with."

"Actually, there is something," the Jarl told Hadvar, "Suitable to your 'unique talents', perhaps. Go talk to Farengar, my court wizard. The fellow in blue." The Jarl pointed out a robed figure in an alcove to the left of the throne. "He has been requesting help for some dragon-related project for a few days now. He'll fill you in on all the details." At a loss for something better to do with my time, I decided to go on Farengar's quest. Maybe it will be useful! Or annoy someone. I don't especially care which. When Hadvar tried to talk to the wizard, he was ignored. When I tried to talk to the wizard, I was ignored. Mistake.

I looked about the wizard's office/lab and spotted a volatile-looking and primitive set of alchemy equipment smoking gently in the corner. Heh-heh-heh. Snagging a glowing gem, a bowl of some blue powder, a rusty dagger, and a book from the wizard's desk, I sauntered over to the glassware. Channelling a bit of magic to my teeth, I bit off the tip of the dagger, chewed it up, and spat the semi-molten mass that resulted into a flask. I ripped a page out of the middle of the book, set it on fire, and poked it through the opening of the flask. Then, I added the powder and a generous helping of spit over the now very attentive wizard's protests, swirled it around with a flourish, and raised it up to slam the lot into the glowy gem. "Not the soul gem!" shouted the wizard in a panic. If he wanted me to pay attention to him, he should have paid attention to me. Maybe some ruined lab equipment would teach him a valuable lesson. I swung. With a ferocious report, the gem split in half, releasing a blast of frigid energy that somehow propelled the metal straight upwards, where it lodged in the Jarl's ceiling. I was mostly just shocked that the whole mess didn't explode. I was kind of hoping it would. "You-you-you!" Farengar sputtered in shock. Some people don't respond to adrenaline well. "Do you have any idea how expensive… how dangerous… how utterly irresponsible that was? You could have killed us all!"

"It's all your fault," I pointed out.

"How is any of this my fault," he blustered. How was it not his fault? Wasn't it obvious?

"I'm not the one who ignored the person who is trying to help him," I motioned to Hadvar as I said this, "I also didn't ignore the sociopathic lunatic with delusions of alchemical skill or leave volatile reagents lying around just begging to be abused. I have a very short attention span. And impulse control issues. And pyromania. How could you be so irresponsible?! You're lucky that I didn't kill us all with my bungling!" He immediately looked contrite. No wonder the Jarl didn't list Farengar as a trusted advisor if the wizard is so easily brow-beaten. What a weak-minded imbecile. Or maybe he just noticed how well armed Hadvar and I are and felt intimidated. Who knows what lies within the hearts of men? The Shadow knows, but I'm not him. His costume is lame.

"What do you people want, then?" the wizard desperately stammered.

"The Jarl said you had a project you needed help with. Something for us to retrieve," Hadvar stated blandly. I guess he was trying to calm Farengar down.

"Erm, yes," the wizard waffled, before pulling his thoughts together. "The Jarl must be referring to my research into the dragons. I need more information on the beasts, and an… associate tipped me off on the location of a map of ancient dragon burial sites. This map was etched onto a stone tablet called the Dragonstone in ages past by the ancient Nords. My associate learned that it may have been stored in Bleak Falls Barrow, just North of Riverwood. If you could go to Bleak Falls, and search for this tablet, it would be most helpful. If the Dragonstone is there, it will be interred in the main chamber with the highest-ranking remains."

"I know where Farengar here is referring to," Hadvar mused, "You can see the barrow from Riverwood. The place always did give me the creeps as a kid, and the stories Uncle Alvor told about Draugr coming down from the mountains to steal away disobedient young boys didn't help. But, Draugr are a myth. Everybody knows that. The worst we'll have to deal with will be some skeevers that wandered in, maybe a few bandits looking for shelter. A giant spider or two if we are really unlucky. The two of us should have no problems at all"

"Good to hear," Farengar said, slightly more warmly, "I wish you luck, and look forward to safe, swift, and successful return." We took our leave of the Jarl's court, and Hadvar shared with me what he knew about the old Nordic tombs as we stayed the night in the local inn, the Bannered Mare, before trekking back to Riverwood to begin our search of the barrow. I never was especially fond of fetch quests, but this one seemed simple enough. How bad could it be?


	3. Dungeons and Dragons

**A quick note from the writer: When Zoe starts singing something, cue up the song on Youtube and listen to it while you read for maximum epicness!**

Although I figured that the barrow wouldn't be that dangerous, I stopped in at Riverwood's general store for some basic supplies. It never hurts to be prepared, and it can really hurt not to be. It's always the little things, like lockpicks, or rope, or grease, or a knife up your boot, or a crowbar, or homemade pipe bombs, that you wish you had at the worst possible moment. Not that I advocate making your own pipe bombs, but it's not like anyone else on the frikkin planet knows how to make one. You hear that, kids? Get your explosives from professionals, at least if you want to keep all your fingers.

The barrow is apparently located on top of what would be a ginormous mountain almost anywhere else, but in Skyrim is a modest hill. The locals say it's haunted, including Hadvar, but they always say that. Even odds it's a Scooby-Doo ghost. Or giant slaggin spiders. There are always giant slaggin spiders. Even when it is literally impossible for them to be there. The path up was covered in deep snowdrifts from about halfway up the trail to our destination, so Hadvar and I had to plow through the cold, wet crap like human snowplows. I made him go first.

What? He's got about two feet and a hundred and fifty pounds on me. And it's cold. I hate cold. The voices in my head really need to be less judgmental.

The barrow itself wasn't exactly impressive to look at from the outside. Just some crumbling arches and a huge decorative door set in the side of the mountain. Hadvar and I cracked the gaudy great things open a bit and squeezed inside. The barrow is built inside a set of natural caves that the ancient denizens of Skyrim modified for use as a tomb, so most of the walls were rough stone, and hey! Two bandits were standing guard, or rather huddled around a roaring bonfire, complaining. It's cold. How'd I know they were bandits? Well, they were bragging about murdering some poor sap, stealing his stuff off the corpse, and then dumping the body off the mountain. Real nice lot. I sneakily drew my sword with a rasp of metal, holding it point forward in a classical fencing grip. Without both hands it's harder to get enough power for a good cut, especially with a lighter weapon like the one Alvor gave me. As they say, a few centimeters of point are as good as a meter-long cut. With a great big can opener or a scimitar it's a bit different, but I like lighter, straighter swords. Then, the voices decided they'd had enough of stealthy. I hate being outvoted. And perforated. But does anybody ever listen to me? Noooo.

"Hey!" I shouted to them, Hadvar giving me a dismayed look as I ruined our ambush, "I couldn't think of a good insult on such short notice, and you lot are obviously nameless cannon fodder, so I didn't want to waste a good line on you. Insert generic insult here I guess?" Hadvar and the bandits stared at me blankly. Excellent. I traced a quick magic symbol with the point of my sword (I really need a cloak to hide my hands… hand under while I cast spells so people don't notice I'm doing it. I miss my clothes from before I got captured. And my arm, but one thing at a time here) and time stood still. But it wouldn't for long.

What most people assume is short-range teleportation or super speed is in fact my highly versatile and ever-abusable temporal skip spell. Basically it borrows a few seconds against the universe, in which everything but me and the air is frozen in time. On the one hand, it allows instant movement as long as I can do whatever it is I'm trying to pull off in six seconds, and lets me gain a foothold on anything, even if it is in the air, or a liquid. The things I can do on rainy days would boggle your mind if you could see me do them. However, because time isn't moving for anything else, I can't attack people. Without time moving, hitting things is useless. If fun. Still, I doubt the bandits were prepared for me go from ten meters away to being in the process of running the grubbier bandit through with no actual time elapsed. While the second bandit gawked, I kicked the new corpse off my sword, and smashed the hilt of my weapon into his face. Before he could recover, an arrow slammed into his head courtesy of Hadvar's heavy bow. Three moves, two kills, no injuries on our side. Can't get much better than that. I wiped the sword off on the cleaner bandit's cloak and sheathed it again. Have to clean it once we're done here. I don't know if dwarven metal corrodes, but a bloody sword always starts to smell after a while.

I gave the corpses a quick pat-down, and came up with a few gold coins and a dirty jug of moonshine. A hasty experiment suggests that it will serve as an excellent Molotov cocktail, but drinking it would be a terrible idea. We continued deeper into the dusty, musty tomb, until our path was blocked by a wall of thick, tacky webbing. Giant Slaggin Spiders. It never fails. Wherever you are in the galaxy, the multiverse, scrap, the omniverse, no matter what you are doing, who you are with, or if you could annihilate the things with a flick of the wrist, there are always, at somewhere near the beginning of an epic adventure, giant slagging spiders. Always.

A minor spell burned away the obstacle, and I looked around the room on the other side. The place was covered in more webs, and a skinny dark elf was suspended in another web wall on the far side, screaming in panic, and oh, hey! The giant slagging spider was on the ceiling, waiting for us to walk underneath us so that it could drop down and eat us. That ain't happening.

"Just shoot it," I told Hadvar stoically, "It's not worth the effort." With a shrug, the Imperial drew his bow and put an arrow into the arachnid, which dropped from the ceiling with a satisfying splat. It wiggled and twitched, so I doused it with the booze and set it on fire. That worked. Ignoring the elf's profuse thanks, we examined the webs he was stuck in. They were covering the door out, so I burned through them again, taking care to leave the elf wrapped. He started begging us to let him out, the pathetic coward.

"Why should we bother?" I asked him, "That spider wasn't exactly tough. If you couldn't even escape it, what's the point? You'll just get eaten by the next creepy-crawly to come skittering along. Might as well put you out of your misery."

"NO! Wait. Don't kill me," He wasn't off to a convincing start. "I know why you're here! The golden claw, the power within the barrow, the secrets of the ancients… Cut me lose, and I'll show you!"

"Or," I suggested to Hadvar, "We kill him, take his stuff, and don't share! So much easier, and it deprives the world of an idiot. Waddaya say, partner?"

"Don't kill random people," Hadvar valiantly resisted the urge to introduce his palm and his face, "We'll take the claw if he has it, and then cut him loose. We're the good guys, remember? Well, relatively speaking, at least. We're supposed to take the moral high ground."

"Can't I stab him first," I begged, "Just a little?" Hadvar graced me with a glare. "Fine. Spoilsport."

I cut open the web enough to frisk the elf, while he wiggled impotently, and retrieved a large golden ornament in the shape of a dragon's claw, which I kept, and a set of dirty spare undergarments, which I burned. Then, I flash-fried the webs. And his clothes. And a substantial but survivable portion of his epidermis, which caused him to run away screaming in agony. "He'll live. I only got ten percent of his skin, tops. You don't start dying until at least fifty, and only if it's not first degree burns," I informed Hadvar. When you've been a pyromancer for thousands of years, you get pretty good at eyeballing burn severity. He shrugged, and we continued through the gap in the webbing, and soon found ourselves in a large chamber lined with alcoves, each containing a mummified body. The exit from the chamber was trapped with a spiked grate hooked up to a pressure plate. Step on the plate, and the grate turns you into shredded meat. However, the mechanism had jammed with rust, and did exactly squat to us as we advanced into the tomb. In the next chamber, we faced a narrow corridor filled with swinging blades, and numerous poisoned dart shooters in the walls. The darts were so old that they weren't even poisonous anymore, and the blades jammed from lack of maintenance after a single swing. I was kind of disappointed, because I didn't get to make any Indiana Jones jokes.

In the next room, though, we were confronted with a defense that was not affected by age. When we stepped into the center of the room, the mummified corpses scattered about the room got up out of their coffins and staggered toward us at a surprisingly swift pace, drawing a motley collection of rusted hunks of metal that may have at one point been useful weapons and shields. Deadwalkers. I really hate deadwalkers. Killing the already dead is usually an exercise in frustration. Still, I have yet to meet a problem that the liberal application of fire couldn't solve. True, some problems require more fire than I can produce, but I doubted this one needed that much, so I gathered a charge of magical power and held it inside me, lighting my hair on fire in a harmless, warm blaze. Then, I took a deep breath, and exhaled a torrent of white-hot flame, redirecting it with a quickly sketched magical symbol in the air to hit the undead behind me too. Took a fair amount of mana to do it, but it also got all the deadwalkers. I don't exactly have the best reserves for a battlemage, but I can manage a few big spells a day without any problems, and not getting eaten by a small swarm of undead definitely warrants a little effort.

After the undead, the barrow's defenses petered out, and Hadvar and I eventually found ourselves contemplating a large circular door in a long hallway. If the intricate and well-preserved carvings on the walls were any indication, this hall led somewhere important. There was an indent in the door that might match the golden claw we found, but I didn't really want to take the time to figure out how the thing worked. Being covered in zombie ash, blood, spider webs, dust, and other dubious substances does wonders for my patience. So, I burned a spell to blow a hole in the door. Subtlety is overrated, and it's not like I'll need two more big spells before I get to sleep tonight.

I should know better than to say that, because the room was guarded by a big zombie, with an actual intact greatsword and armor. He's on the other side of the room, so I figured I've got enough time to draw and get ready, but as I reached for my sword the zombie muttered something incomprehensible, and suddenly he's right in front of us, weapon swinging. Hadvar and I both backpedaled as fast as we could, and the hunk of oddly pristine steel swishes in front of Hadvar's face, missing him by inches.

"Don't let the blade touch you!" Hadvar yelled at me, "It's enchanted. No blocking, no parrying!" He could say more, but my precognitive senses, which are active now, warned me that the zombie is about to yell something else, which will send Hadvar flying, so I blinked right up close to the zombie and crushed its left kneecap with an armored foot. While the thing struggled to right itself, I pinned it down long enough for Hadvar to chop its head off. The big zombie was so tough it took four swings to finish it.

Aside from super-zombie there wasn't much of interest in the chamber. The only other thing that caught my attention was a wall covered in strange carvings, one of which was glowing. It seemed to be generating some kind of deep chanting noise, all 'Cthulu Fthagn', but the carvings didn't actually seem to do anything else, and we gave up trying to interact with them after a few minutes. Who goes to the trouble of leaving glowing, talking runes lying around in their ancient tomb for no good reason? It doesn't make sense, but then again people don't always make sense. Exhibit A: me. On the other hand, we did find what is probably the dragonstone Farengar wanted. A big stone tablet with a map of Skyrim carved on one side and an etching of a dragon on the other. That's something, at least. We also took super-zombie's magic sword. Maybe it's worth something.

Dragonstone in tow, Hadvar and I spent the night with his family in Riverwood, to heal up minor scrapes, sell the magic sword, restore my mana, and bathe. Even in a freezing cold river, it's still better than the alternative. The trip back to Whiterun was as uneventful as the walk to Riverwood, and by about noon we were slamming the Dragonstone down in front of a mildly impressed Farengar.

"Hope this rock's worth it," I grumbled at him, "I expect extra pay for all the zombies! Hate zombies. Ugh." Farengar assured me that the Jarl would compensate us appropriately for our services, but he clearly wasn't paying attention to me. Didn't he remember what happened the last time he left me unsupervised? Perhaps a reminder was in order…

Unfortunately (or fortunately, if you aren't me) Irileth interrupted my efforts to spawn chaos and awesome. "Farengar! The jarl needs to speak with you at once," The housecarl had the look of someone who would be panicking if not for the sort of icy mental armor you only get from years of training and discipline. "A dragon has levelled the western watchtower and is heading this way!"

"A dragon? How exciting!" I don't think Farengar quite comprehended the situation, "Where is it now? What is it doing? I must see it."

"I'd take this a bit more seriously if I were you," Irileth looked disgusted at Farengar's lack of concern for the lives lost already, "The only reason that monster isn't burning Whiterun as we speak is that it seems to want to leave nothing behind it except scorched, barren earth. You two!" She pointed to Hadvar and me, "Whiterun desperately needs your help. You survived Helgen, so you have more experience with dragons than any of us. Farengar, you will be staying here, Jarl's orders. The citizens who cannot fight will take shelter in Dragonsreach. If we cannot turn the beast back, your magics will be their last protection. Come on! Move!" I didn't really want to fight a dragon, but it isn't like we'll be able to escape before the thing attacks. Plus, I couldn't just leave these people to get eaten or something. Even if most of the voices wanted me to. Besides, since I'll probably end up fighting Alduin at some point, this will make a good test run. If I stand no chance against a normal dragon, I'll need a lot of work to face off against the world-eater himself.

Hadvar and I hurried after Irileth and met a small army of guards near the main gate of Whiterun, along with about twenty warriors wearing heavy armor with pauldrons shaped like stylized wolf heads. When I asked Hadvar, he told me they were members of the Companions of Ysgramor, an ancient order of warriors and mercenaries based in Whiterun for thousands of years. "Zoe, Hadvar," Irileth addressed us, "If you have any wisdom to impart on how to fight a dragon, now is the time to share it."

"Aim for the wings," I instructed, "A dragon's best weapon isn't claws, fangs, or fire. A dragon on the ground can only fight people who are nearby. A dragon in the air can torch an army in just a few passes. We need to ground him or the city will burn."

"You heard the woman!" Irileth shouted, "Now, to your posts, guards! Whiterun hasn't fallen to an external foe in hundreds of years, and it will not today!" She turned and addressed the oldest of the Companions, "Harbinger, it would be best for your men to stay back as a reserve. You are far mightier than our common soldiers, and we don't want the dragon to set you all aflame before it even gets within reach."

The companions apparently agreed with her analysis, albeit reluctantly, and marched off to find cover and a good vantage point. Hadvar and I took cover under a weapon shop near the gate called Warmaiden's, and soon we could hear the ear-splitting roar of an angry (hungry?) dragon. The dragon flew over the walls, big and green and scaly, blasting fire until it was cut off by a ballista bolt from the walls making contact with its sternum. While the bolt just bounced off, it still must have hurt because the dragon's roar and jet of flame turned into a choked cough and its wings missed a beat. Flights of arrows and more bolts flew toward the creature from all directions, bouncing off its scales but savaging its more delicate wings, until it lost altitude and slammed into the ground about ten meters from my position, crushing three guards beneath its bulk. Before the ballista on the wall could retarget, the beast swung about with surprising agility and swept the ramparts with dragonfire, incinerating the siege engines and their operators. Then, the dragon turned its attention to the shield-wall of guards advancing determinedly on its flank. It drew in a breath, but before the creature could respond, with a shout of challenge, Irileth charged the creature, sword at the ready, firing arcs of electricity from her off hand. The dragon unleashed its fiery breath, but the valiant housecarl plunged forward into the inferno, even as her flesh boiled and blackened and peeled away. The elf reached the dragon, and with a wordless cry of agony and fury, stepped into its gaping maw and thrust her sword up through the roof of the monster's mouth and into its brain. As the creature collapsed in a heap, she fell out of its mouth, barely recognizable as a once-living being, but with her partially melted sword still in hand and what could have been a smile on the remains of her face. The dragon began to dissolve, as though invisible flames were eating away at its flesh to leave only a malevolent skeleton behind, but I ignored it and dashed out to the impossibly still breathing elf.

"Slag, lady," I joked darkly, "How are you still alive?"

"Dark elf," she gasped, "harder to burn. Divines look after… brave and foolish."

"Some say the two go hand in hand," I wasn't sure if humor was the right way to go, but I couldn't think of what else to say. Fancy that: Zoe Walker, speechless, "Folkvangr will gain a great woman on this day."

"What… that?" Irileth didn't have much time left, but she choked the words out.

"It's like Soverngard," I explained, "Except less picky, and ladies only. But don't worry," I gave her a shaky grin, "The men of Valhalla meet with them often enough." Irileth made a rattling noise, like she was trying to laugh but couldn't quite manage it.

"I guess, if I have… to die, this is the way to do go," she was fading fast, "with a great foe… at my feet, in the… arms of a… friend, a smile… on my… face…" I tried to close her eyes for her, but Irileth didn't have eyes left; the fire had mercilessly purged any recognizable features from her body, and… what's that noise?!

I turned around to behold a cloud of swirling, white streams of energy surrounding the dragon corpse. The streams shot into the sky in a rush of wind, looped around, and returned to the skeleton, which rapidly covered itself with flesh. Before our horrified eyes, the newly regenerated dragon lifted itself onto all fours, muttering in a guttural language, and bowed its head briefly at Irileth's body before turning back to the guard formation, now broken in their shock and surprise. No frakkin way would I letting that happen. Regeneration or not, that lizard will die.

Before the dragon could breathe more fire, I blinked in front of it, raising my hand to draw a rune in the air. The monster blasted a great torrent of flame, which was sucked into the rune as I calmly walked toward it. "You don't quite get it, do you?" I asked conversationally, "There's more to pyromancy than just setting stuff on fire, amateur. A true master of fire can move it, redirect it to her will. Extinguish it. Absorb it." I allowed the stored power to ignite my hair and burn behind my eyes, harmless flames that nonetheless look incredibly awesome, while I rapidly converted the stored heat into raw mana, and then into electricity. Lightning, many times more potent than the sparks Irileth had conjured, danced between my fingers and I gave the dragon a sadistic grin. Then, I slapped it across the snout, discharging hundreds of megajoules of energy into its body with flesh-melting, bone-shattering power. "Fry, you great, scaly bastard, fry! Ah-hahahahahahahaha!" I gave the cracked, scorched bones a solid kick, "Regenerate that, you corpse." Unfortunately, it took that as a challenge.

It was about that point that I realized my precognitive reflexes weren't working on the dragon. I could see what everyone else was going to do, as usual, but the dragon itself was a blur, like it was throwing out interference or something. "Time," I muttered in dismayed realization, "It's connected to time."

I didn't have a chance to say anything else because the dragon had regenerated, and with a shout of "Fus Roh Dah!", the monster sent me flying through Warmaidens with a wall of invisible force. I felt something crack in my body, and then the building collapsed around me and everything went black. Always with the head wounds! Slag!

When I came to, the dragon was still in the clearing, surrounded by smoldering guard corpses. I tried to get up, but found myself pinned by a huge chunk of timber. I tried to push it off, but couldn't shift the thing. Too much weight. Pinned and helpless, I was forced to witness the last stand of the Companions of Ysgramor.

Weapons drawn, the legendary mercenaries surrounded the creature, yelling insults and battle cries. When it tried to blast them with flame, an arrow flashed across the open space like a steel thunderbolt and buried itself to the fletching in the monster's eye. While the dragon roared in pain and anger, the companions attacked as one, swords flashing, axes parting scale and muscle, maces crushing delicate wing bones. Whenever the dragon attempted to use its fire again, another arrow shot forth, seeking out the weakest spots in its durable hide, disrupting its concentration and keeping its greatest weapon silent.

This isn't to say the Companions had it all their way. Even muted and under attack from all sides, a dragon is a fearsome foe. I saw the old man, the Harbinger they called him, sent flying by a single swat from the beast's tail. Three warriors, trying to hack at its head and neck were mauled and thrown across the city. Two more were simply crushed beneath the creature's bulk as it moved about, and the lethal tail claimed as many lives as the other appendages put together. In the end, only five of the Companions were left standing, all wounded, except the archer who had kept the dragonfire away from her comrades, when a brave man embedded his axe deep in the monster's spine, ending its struggles. However, I doubted that was enough to finish it for good, and based on the standing warriors' expressions, they weren't surprised either when the dragon got up yet again.

The surviving Companions exchanged glances, and then, they changed. Each grew taller and bulkier, sprouting thick fur, claws, and canine jaws, and they attacked the dragon with speed and agility no ordinary mortal could hope to match. The Companions are werewolves. Huh. Who knew? The five of them were able to maul the dragon into submission, but without the deadly archer to ward off the lethal flames, the Companions that survived were in no shape to go another round. I guess the myth about needing silver to kill a werewolf can be considered disproven. However, this time, the dragon healed more slowly. Maybe because werewolves are magic creatures too, maybe it was just getting tired, but the dragon definitely was taking a lot longer to recover this time. While the monster was regenerating, Hadvar finally found me in the rubble, and heaved the thick beam off me. Leverage is a wondrous thing. The fact that he has biceps the size of my head had nothing to do with it. My ego and my vanity agree on the subject completely.

"Are you alright?" He was concerned about me? I was only blasted halfway through a building, which then proceeded to collapse on me. That's nothing!

"Don't worry," I hazily reassured him, providing a shaky thumbs-up to prove that I was fine. "The Matrix of Leadership will light our darkest hour." That big red robot says that sometimes, right? Everything he says sounds reassuring. But, Hadvar didn't look convinced. Maybe it's in the delivery…

But I could worry about Hadvar later, right now I needed a way to stop this dragon. I thought back over my millennia of experience; surely I know a good way to kill the apparently unkillable. Weakness to magic? Already tried that, didn't work. Special weapon? If I had one, I would have used it already! Disintegration? Too hard to focus to pull off a plasma spell with a head wound. Musical montage! The voices might be on to something here. I dragged myself to my feet, snagging a battleax from a convenient nearby dead guy. It isn't like he was using it for anything.

"You got the touch!" I warbled, staggering toward the dragon. The voices in my head laid down some a-cappella background music, which I doubt anyone else could hear. "You got the powaaaaa Yeah!"

The dragon turned toward the noise, and then paused in utter bewilderment as I limped forward, boogying in an awkward, lurching parody of a dancer's grace. "After all is said and done, you never walk you never run, you're a winner!" The creature took a snap at me, but I did the limbo under its extending jaws. "You've got the moves, you know the streets, break the rules, take the heat, you're nobody's fooooool!" It fired another force blast, but I blinked out of the way, nearly losing my balance. It's hard to do a musical number with a head wound, a few pints light, and covered in minor injuries, but I can't stop now! For I… Am awesome! "You're at your best when the goin' gets rough; you've been put to the test, but it's never enough! You got the touch! You got the powaaaaa!" The dragon was definitely not happy about this. It took a hop back, and blasted me with dragonfire, which of course did absolutely nothing except burn my clothes off again, the metal bits glowing red-hot as they fell, no longer connected by leather. Ah, the joys of being a pyromancer. At least I'd lost the pipe bombs at some point in my flight through the building. "When all hell's breaking loose you're riding the eye of the stooooorm!"

The dragon charged, jaws gaping. I positioned the battleax just so, and used the force of the charge to shove it shaft first straight up the creature's left nostril. "You got the heart, you got the motion!" An extra swing of my hips that nearly sent me sprawling, as I put a bit too much weight on my apparently badly wounded left leg. "You know that when things get too rough, you got the touch!" The monster was too busy roaring in agony and supreme discomfort to weigh in on the subject. "You never bend, you never break, you seem to know just what it takes! You're a fiiighta!" The dragon swung around to slam its tail into me, but I caught the blow in my palm. Quick physics lesson! Heat is basically kinetic energy, being experienced in another form. Pyromancy manipulates heat, therefore it manipulates kinetic energy, therefore I can dissipate kinetic energy, so long as I don't try to do it very often and I know exactly where the hit is coming from. But man does it look awesome when it works. "It's in the blood, it's in the will! It's in the mighty hands of steel! When you're standing your growowound!"

The creature continued its assault with a flurry of blows from its wings and tail, all of which I (barely) dodged. "And you never get hit when you're back's to the wall! Gonna fight 'till the end and you're takin' it all… You got the touch! You got the powa! When all hell's breakin' loose, you'll be riding the eye of the stooooooorm!" As it whirled around for another yelling spell, I seized the opportunity to jump up, grab a convenient horn, and swing to the back of its neck. "You got the heart, you got the motion! And you know that when things get too rough, you got the touch!" A focused plasma blast was beyond me, in the state I was in, and an unfocused one wouldn't hurt something as durable as the dragon obviously was. Unless it was at point-blank range. "You're fighting fire with fire, you know you got the touch! You're at your best when the road gets rough, you've been put to the test and it's never enough!" The plasma charged with a distinctive high-pitched 'skeeeeeeeeeee', and I positioned the glowing spellfire at the base of the dragon's skull. "You got the touch, you got the powaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" I released the magic, enveloping the dragon's head in solar fire. Which did absolutely nothing to him. Fire dragon equals immune to fire. Slag. And it shook me off with laughable ease. Ah, free fall, my old nemesis. We meet at ow. And now I could add road rash to my rapidly growing collection of flesh wounds. Then, the creature spoke. Like, with English words.

"You are brave, small mortal," it rumbled, "I, Mirmulnir, would know the name of my adversary, that I might honor the greatest mortal warrior I have had the privilege to meet in battle after her demise." Mortal? Me?! Who does he think he's talking to?! I will… instruct him to my proper form of address! Oh, and I supposed I could work with the fact that dragons are apparently intelligent and can be talked to.

"Mortal? Mortal?!" A torrent of giggles escaped from my lips as I dragged my battered body upright again, ignoring the blood seeping down my left leg and my side. Ow. "You dare insult me so?! I am Zoe the Timewalker, Firstblood of Raxis, the Immortal Dark Lady, Starforger, Anvil of Dawn! Champion of Acalumoi, CEO of Walker Arms and Enterprises, Captain of the S. S. Red Dawn! All who hear my name shall tremble! And, soon, you will too."

"You are on the last of your strength, mortal," Mirmulnir observed, "You have matched your strength against mine, and I will not die. You will."

"Oh, and I'm glad for it!" I gave him a grin that promised nothing less than eternal suffering, "If you weren't immortal, you might have gotten off lightly!"

"Wait, what?" Mirmulnir was off-balance for the first time since he'd arrived. Excellent.

"Did you know that Dragonsreach was designed to imprison dragons?" I weaved my way unsteadily up to him, "If you will not die, then you will serve." I reared back, and took as large a bite as I could manage out of his snout, ripped off a chunk of living flesh, and swallowed it with relish, dragon blood oozing down my chin. "Your regenerating meat shall supply steaks and chops to the people of Whiterun for millennia to come!" The dragon took a swift, ungainly hop back, avoiding a second bite. Although I couldn't read his expression, his voice became tinged with what in a human would be borderline panic.

"Oh, no. Great Akatosh, no! Not happening!" the dragon protested, but I wasn't letting him go that easy, after what he'd done.

"Come back, meat!" I wailed in distress, "I… hunger. I need more blood and sashimi!"

"No way, you crazy monster!" Mirmulnir exclaimed. Oh, yesssss. They will fear me and despair! "No way am I sticking around here to get eaten! Lord Alduin wants this sorry dump wrecked, he can do it himself! I am outta here, and I'm never coming back!" With a great sweep of his regenerated wings, Mirmulnir took to the skies, rapidly winging his way to perceived safety, leaving a faint trail of droplets of blood in his wake. Hadvar, still more than slightly shell-shocked, came up next to me, an unreadable expression stamped across his face.

"Is it over?" I asked, keeping myself under iron control.

"Yeah," my… friend confirmed, "The dragon's gone. It's over."

"Oh. Good." I keeled over backwards, unable to hold myself upright, as the shock, wounds, blood loss, and adrenaline crash all caught up to me at once. I barely had the strength to raise my head.

"Zoe! By the eight!" Hadvar knelt beside me, producing a roll of bandages from his still-intact pack, "Are you alright? No, obviously not… Stupid question, I know." He took stock of my condition, and shook his head. "How were you still standing, woman?! You've got enough injuries to down three lesser men!"

"Wha?" I managed, mind surfing the waves of pain pulsing through my body, "How bad is it?"

"Well, your entire body is covered in splinters, cuts and bruises, and there's a big chunk of wood stuck in your side," Hadvar analyzed, carefully bandaging the area where the wood was presumably located without removing it. Yanking things out of a stab wound can make them bleed worse. "I think all three of your limbs have been sprained and maybe some cracked bones too, but I couldn't tell for sure without asking a priest." He pressed on my chest, drawing a hiss of pain, "Add that to two, no three broken ribs, and," he glanced briefly to my leg, "You've been knifed. How in Oblivion you managed to get knifed while fighting a dragon is anyone's guess. Maybe you picked it up when you got blasted through Warmaiden's. To polish it off, you've got a nice goose egg on your thick skull, and you went fighting a dragon with it. Fighting with a head wound can kill you, not that the dragon was any less dangerous." He moved on to my leg, carefully working around the knife. "All in all, you're lucky to be alive, and we're lucky you are." Hadvar turned to a woozy, well-toasted Companion, who was slowly levering himself into a seated position with a groan. "You! Don't let her move! I'm going to head up to the palace to let the people know that the danger has passed, and fetch a healer. Since I seem to be the only person here who can still walk. Sorry about that, Zoe. If there was anyone else still standing, I'd stay here with you." Friendship forged in dragonfire. I guess it can't get stronger than that.


	4. Name-Dropping Urza

I would like to preface the following statements by making it clear that I am profoundly grateful that a long and careful study of time magic has rendered me immune to most of the adverse effects of being 25,142 years old. I am exceedingly happy to be still alive and well, rather than dust on the wind, even if I didn't figure out how to render myself immune to aging until a little after my fortieth birthday. There, I said it. Now then.

Being old sucks. It isn't that I feel this way very often, as I am extremely well-preserved for my age, and I keep myself in great shape through near-obsessive training. However, there are some days, usually after a big battle, where I wake up and everything, and I mean everything hurts. Not the sort of pain you get from being stabbed or crushed, although I'm feeling that too, but this deep, pulsing throb that centers in your bones and nastier scars that no amount of ibuprofen can reach. Of course, Skyrim's medical technology has yet to discover that there are better surgical anesthetics than getting really, really drunk or high, so I don't even get that much relief. Note to self: Don't fight dragons alone and one-handed. Also, ow.

Even with magical help from the local priests, it took a few weeks to get me back to fighting shape. Unsurprisingly, one do not simply walk away from fighting a dragon alone, one-handed, and naked. It wasn't like I had a much of a choice at the time, since my dwarven sword was the only thing to survive the dragonfire, but that doesn't make the recovery any more pleasant.

Still, all the down-time gave me an opportunity for some hardcore research. If I couldn't move around, my best bet was to do my best to discover a way to put a dragon down for good, so I don't end up in the same situation again. Fortunately, Farengar turned out to be a much better academic than, well, just about anything else. By the time I was back on my feet I had a plan to explain to Jarl Balgruff that could give us the ability to kill a dragon without all that mystical dragonborn juju that no one alive seems to have.

"Based on my observations in combat, and experiments on the bones, Farengar and I discovered why the dragon kept coming back to life," I shared with my audience, which included Hadvar, the Jarl, and his closest advisors. "A while ago, Sigurd of Riverwood told me that dragons all trace their lineage back to Akatosh, the god of time. Also, when I fought the beast, it laid down some sort of chronal interference. Now you don't need to know exactly what that means, but in short, dragons have time powers." That much they seemed to understand. "Now it starts to get complicated. Most people can move in three ways. Forward and backward, left and right, up and down, yes? For simplicity's sake, let's call these ways to move dimensions. However, people also grow older, as time passes. But, you can't just go backwards in time without some seriously complicated magic. I'm pretty sure that, for dragons, it's slightly different. As far as we can tell, dragons don't move in three dimensions; they move in four. The same three that we can, but also forwards and backwards in time. So, when you kill one, their soul travels back in time until they have a body again, which makes it look like they regenerate. Thus, to permanently kill a dragon, we need a way to capture its' soul before it can do that, like dragonborn do naturally."

"You think people haven't tried that?" asked Hrongar, "I thought you had something useful! Many wizards have tried to capture a dragon's soul inside a soul gem. It's impossible!"

"Hold on a sec, I'm not done," I replied, "You can't put a dragon's soul in a normal soul gem because soul gems exist in three dimensions, just like us and whatever you try to stuff in there, like a deer or a troll or a mammoth."

"So then we need a… four-dimensional soul gem?" the jarl reasoned, "Do you know how to make one?"

"I can do better than that!" I replied happily. It's always nice to exceed expectations and talk about myself. "I met a guy named Urza a while back. Completely bonkers, of course, and sociopathic in ways even I would never dream of, but he's also the best artificer I've ever heard of. He had these special objects called powerstones that he used to fuel all his inventions. But there's more. Powerstones don't just store energy; they store space too. Urza, monstrous bastard that he was, actually stuffed what was effectively an entire, human-populated realm of Oblivion into a powerstone once. If he hadn't been fighting someone much worse than him, I would have killed him myself. Well, there was the minor fact that he could've killed me with one finger if he wanted to… And he was completely immune to any attack I could make… But the point is that if a powerstone could contain an entire world, it must exist in more than four dimensions, because things that exist in more than four dimensions can exist in a world, and if powerstones only existed in three dimensions, those things would've escaped when Urza destroyed Serra's Realm. So, if we make a powerstone, we can soul trap dragons with it. And before you ask, Urza's been dead for a long time. He sacrificed his life to kill that other guy I was talking about, and the omniverse is much improved by the loss."

"What do you need to make a powerstone?" asked the jarl, "Whiterun is prosperous, but we don't have unlimited resources. These things sound expensive."

"The money isn't a problem," I assured him, "The big cost is in the labor. Our only problem is that an ordinary forge isn't going to get hot enough to turn a crystal into a powerstone. The Skyforge isn't hot enough either. I think my only option is to seek out the Aetherium Forge. According to the book Farengar showed me, it could be the only place in Skyrim where a powerstone can be made, and we do have at least a few clues as to where it is, so I'm thinking Hadvar and I ought to set off to search for it at once."

"Well, then," the jarl rubbed his hands together, glad to have a course of action, "What can I do to help?"

After spending a few days to gather the necessary gear, Hadvar and I set out for Utterly Unpronounceable, an ancient dwarven ruin said to contain the Aetherium Forge, or at least a way to find it. Yes, I know it isn't actually called Utterly Unpronounceable, but if I could pronounce what the actual name is I would use it. When exploring ancient structures, things like a grappling hook, decent rope, and a wide array of tools for disabling traps and opening doors are a must. I also got another set of steel armor. I have got to stop getting immolated; I'm tired of fighting naked all the time.

The long trip across Skyrim was largely uneventful. We almost got robbed a couple times, but when the bandits realized they were stalking competent people, they backed off. Pity they had some common sense; the voices wanted blood. Instead, all we had to fight was this random lizard guy in black tights that decided to charge us with knives. Hadvar dropped the loser with an arrow before he even got close. According to the note I found in his pockets, some Satanist named Astrid wants me dead. Haven't these people realized that you don't let your assassins carry around evidence linking you to the crime?! Some people are just too stupid to live. If I ever meet somebody named Astrid around here, I'll have to get the point across. (Geddit? Point? 'Cause I'm going to stab her.) The only other action we saw was when a dragon flew overhead, and we had to hide until it passed. I do not want to fight one of those things again without a powerstone and all four of my limbs.

Still, we made it to Utterly Unpronounceable without grevious injury or losing much time to violence, which was good. Once you start totally relying on living off the land, expedition rations take a noticeable hit in flavor. The ruin was underground, in a mountain. The entrance, which according to Hadvar is typical of dwarven engineering, was made of this exotic golden metal and well-quarried stone. It was probably a formidable barrier when intact, but a seismic shift (hopefully) long ago had bent one of the doors enough to give us an easy path. Abandoned, trap-filled ruins are bad enough, but abandoned, trap-filled, collapsing ruins are even worse. Well, they say the Divines watch over lunatics and fools, so I should be fine, at least. Too bad about Hadvar…

The two of us entered, weapons at the ready, Hadvar taking the lead. He's got a shield, and two arms, so if we get jumped he's more likely to avoid a bad wound. Fortunately, the dwarven ruin seemed free of bandits, assassins, and other pests. On the other hand, Hadvar was pretty sure someone else had come through here recently, with a handcart of all things. I took his word for it; I'm not exactly great at tracking. My skills in that area basically boil down to following obvious footprints, and maybe threatening somebody for information. I knew there was a reason I kept him around! Yanno, aside from the obvious.

However, aside from keeping an eye out for an ambush, we couldn't exactly do anything about the mysterious explorer except push deeper into the ruin. Whoever it was had a seriously powerful crossbow, which was used to disable any dwarven automatons that were feeling lucky, but the explorer hadn't gotten all of them, giving me my first experience with functional dwarven machines.

The things are actually really impressive. I mean, I've seen more dangerous robots, but nothing so advanced that would last thousands of years beyond their creators without regular maintenance. And, the little bastards are fast! The electric, mechanical spiders are bad enough, but they at least ignore you unless you get too close or feel inclined toward vandalism. The big sphere guard things, like well-armed robot segways or something, actively seek out intruders, and they're really well armored. Even a thrust right to the joints doesn't do much damage, and anything else with a sword or bow just pisses them off. A few times Hadvar and I got lucky and were able to push one off a ledge or something, but mostly we had to rely on my magic.

As long as I got the drop on them, that was just fine. After all, it doesn't take a lot of power to yank a few wires at distance, just focus and skill, which I have in spades. However, that only really works while they're still; it's hard to do detail work when you're fighting for your life. For the active ones I had to get my Magneto on, and that uses up more mana than I was really comfortable with. Not as bad as if I had to brute force them with fire and lightning, but still a hefty drain. On the plus side, I was able to retrieve some very interesting scrap that might become part of a left arm in the future, and crossbow person had disabled most of the robots already with the armor-piercing weapon.

After some twisty tunnels and an evil ghost, which I doused in holy water from the temple to Kynareth in Whiterun (never leave home without it!), Hadvar and I heard the sounds of combat up ahead. Rounding the next corner, we were treated to one of the most awesome non-me spectacles I've ever seen.

On one side we had a ravening horde of eye-less, freaky Tolkien-orcs (Hadvar later said they were called fail-mer or something lame like that) armed with shoddy chitin weapons and armor. On the other side, we had a young woman defending a hand-cart of salvage with an actual, slaggin', chain-fed, steam powered, repeating crossbow! I want one. Now. She was wearing a set of badass steampunk goggles and patchwork armor of leather and dwarven metal scraps, and looked to be having a grand old time blasting away at the fail-mer. Still, I think she appreciated it when Hadvar and I took to her back and kept the creepies from flanking her. At least, she didn't shoot us or anything.

With three of us together and a seriously heavy weapon, the stream of fail-mer dried up pretty quickly. With the danger passed, crossbow lady grounded her weapon and vented a stream of vapor from the stock, presumably to keep the thing from overheating.

"Not that I'm not grateful for you keeping those falmer from sticking a knife in my back, but who are you people?" she asked in a clipped accent, "I sure hope you aren't looters. I'd hate to have to shoot you."

"Aren't you a looter?" I pointed out the obvious, "With the cart full of loot and all?"

"Looter? Hah! I am a mechanist!" she crowed, "By studying this recovered technology, I will unlock the ancient secrets of the dwarves. Then, I shall kill vampires with increased efficiency. And SCIENCE!"

"Uh, huh. Well, we're just looking for the Aetherium Forge," I explained, "We heard it's in this ruin. We're going to make something that makes dragons mortal, and then drink from the skulls of our enemies!"

"Not that last part," Hadvar elbowed me in the ribs, and it hurt through my armor, dammit! Why can't I have muscles like that? "I'm Hadvar, Imperial Auxiliaries, and this is Zoe Walker, skilled battlemage. We're trying to create a way to kill dragons without being dragonborn."

"I am Sorine Jorard, artificer extraordinaire, quartermaster of the Dawnguard," crossbow lady introduced herself, "In short, I'm a professional archeologist, mistress of clockwork, and vampire hunter. The three professions go surprisingly well together."

"Vampires, eh? How do you feel about dragonslaying?" I inquired.

"Nothing against it," Sorine allowed, "But I've already committed to helping the Dawnguard thin out some bloodsuckers. I can't start one long crusade until I've finished the one I'm on."

"So, if the vampires need to die before you'll help us kill dragons, then I need to neutralize some vampires," I reasoned. It's a noble goal. Of all the kinds of undead, vampires are the worst. They can spread themselves with no limits to who they turn, have freaky powers, and don't lose any mental or physical abilities by being undead. The things can overrun entire planets, or even habitable star clusters, if left unchecked. Generally, the only acceptable response is orbital bombardment, but even if my starship was in the area, I wouldn't have any way to contact them. Fire and steel it is! "How would we go about signing up with the Dawnguard?"

"You'd have to talk to Isran. He's the head honcho," related Sorine, "But for now, why don't we stick together? I'd love to find the Aetherium forge, and if we do I'll put in a good word for you with the old man, eh?"

"Sound's good," I agreed, "Guess you've got yourselves two new vampire hunters."

"Don't I get any say in this?" Hadvar butted in.

"You mean you don't want to help keep bloodsucking fiends from takin' over the world?" I asked. "Really?"

"Well, when you put it that way," he grumbled, "I suppose somebody needs to watch your back."

With this settled, we continued deeper into the ruin, which was apparently infested with more fail-mer. Strangely enough, after the dwarven machines, foes that die to sword cuts seemed really, really easy. Usually, things get harder as you go deeper into an ancient ruin, not that I'm complaining that I'm less likely to end up dead.

After a while, we came to a large, open, natural cavern, with a tall dwarven edifice occupying the far wall. Three giant, barred doors blocked our progress. Higher up on the structure, a set of six circular mechanisms sat in alcoves. A hulking but inactive-looking construct stood behind the central door in some sort of scaffold.

"Hey, I recognize this stuff," Sorine analyzed, "It's a tonal lock. You don't usually see those in Skyrim. By most accounts, Morrowind dwemer were the ones really fond of these. You have to hit the mechanisms in the correct order, or that centurion there," here she pointed to the construct, "Will come online and try to squash us. However, there's no way to know the correct combination. Unlike the ancient Nords, who favored stone tablets or engraved metal for writing, the dwemer used paper, which rots easily."

I briefly examined the doors, then used a pair of pliers to reach through the bars on the left side, and carefully extracted the hinge pins. With a resounding crash, the now unsupported door fell to a gentle push. Forget the lock. My way's easier.

Unfortunately, there wasn't much interesting in the structure. Sorine gleefully dismantled the inactive centurion for parts, but the only other things of interest were some ingots of dwarven metal, too heavy to carry, and a strange glowy semicircle that got the inventress really excited.

"That's aetherium," she exclaimed, "Raw aetherium, and something engraved in the back. It's a map! Apparently, the Aetherium forge is in a small ruin outside Ivarstead, to the east. Unfortunately, if I'm translating these glyphs right, we need four chunks of aetherium to enter the forge."

"Like we needed to hit the spinny thingies in sequence to get in here?" I pointed out.

"Right. Let's go there right away!" Sorine agreed, "Maybe there's an alternative entrance."

The return trip was as monotonous as the trip to Utterly Unpronounceable. Lots and lots of boring, slow, tedious walking. I'd suggest we acquire horses, but I'm fairly certain none of us have more than the vaguest idea how to ride one. Sorine has a mule for her cart of dwarven junk, but that's about as high-tech as our transportation is. Maybe I can get her to make a steam tank or something later.

Sorine, on the other hand, was loving the trip, and not bored at all. I may not be especially knowledgeable on the subject of mechanics, but I do come from a place with a much higher technology level than Tamriel, and I may have memorized Sir Isaac Newton's _Principia Mathematica_ and a few other relevant texts soon after they were printed on a dare. Regardless, as I imparted carefully rationed and censored bits of future knowledge, some differences between me and Sorine quickly became apparent.

I'm an excellent smith and craftswoman. I can chart out a circuit board, forge a sword, make a mechanical limb, and assemble a suit of power armor with the best of them. It will work great, and look great too. It'll do exactly what it was designed to, with elegance, and it'll last for ages. I'm probably the best engineer and smith alive; after over twenty-five thousand years of practice, I slagging well ought to be.

Sorine is an artist. Give me access to the same technology she has and tell me to make a crossbow, and I could. It wouldn't be much different from medieval standard, but it would work, and it would work really well. Give Sorine this tech, and she comes up with a steampunk machine gun with four distinct and powerful attacks. Belt-fed crossbow, bayonet, superheated steam blast, and semimagical Tesla cannon all in one package. Even if I'm not giving her much she doesn't already have, I almost feel sorry for our enemies. Almost. If I ever make contact with my old crew again, I'm definitely going to offer her a job, or at least get her to take a look at my personal gear. I'll give Hadvar the offer too. He's a solid, reliable guy, and that's worth more than you might think.

Anyway, we reached the Aetherium Forge's location, and scared off the bandits squatting over it with a mild scalding. Wimps. After some foolish waving of the Aetherium shard, a dwarven tower rose from the ground. Sure enough, the door had a finicky lock that had spaces for four aetherium shards. Since we only have one, and they didn't leave the hinges within easy reach this time, I put a plasma bolt through the lock. You have to do better than that to make a lock that a little solar fire can't open.

The three of us descended into the sweltering heat of the forge, which is somehow built in the caldera of a supervolcano deep underground. Well, that's one way to get some serious heat for your forge. Man, if this thing goes up, kiss Skyrim goodbye! How is this place not getting melted though? Magic, I guess.

When we reached the forge, Hadvar thought he saw something moving in the magma, but that's impossible. Even if you're immune to heat, like me, you'd still suffocate in the molten rock. Completely slagging… Great Divines! Giant, flaming, lavaproof centurion!

The titanic, glowing red construct stomped up out of the pool of flaming death, lava dripping off its imposing axe and hammer limbs. Pausing briefly to shake off any lingering lava, the humanoid thing advanced on us, radiating menace and furnace heat. Sorine promptly unloaded a volley of bolts into the thing, which mostly bounced off its sides, or burned up shortly after hitting. Hadvar's shield and bow would probably combust if he stayed close to that thing for very long, so I guess that makes it up to me.

How do you kill a flaming, fireproof, metal man? I can't lift him; he's too heavy. He's moving around too much for my wire trick. Working with the same strategies I used on the smaller automatons, I reached out with magnetic fingers, and pulled at his arms and legs, which sent the thing staggering, but did no lasting damage. The monster responded with a blast of flame that sent me running to get Hadvar and Sorine out of the line of fire. Scrap! Not my clothes again! I am sick and tired of fire-based enemies! How come nobody uses good, old fashioned steel anymore?!

So, now I'm stuck dodging around a giant metal juggernaut that could kill me with a single hit. While naked. Again. Last time I did something like this I came out an arm short! I mean, it won't be landing that hit anytime soon, but even with my clairvoyance, I'll get tired eventually.

However, salvation came in the form of Sorine Jorard and her Tesla cannon, which sent the metallic monstrosity staggering and sparking. As the thing tried to recover, I helpfully provided a second lightning bolt, burning most of my reserves for one big hit. If this thing can shake off my best shot, or there's another one, we're dead either way, so I might as well go all out. Thankfully, unlike with the dragon, my best is good enough, and the super-centurion dropped in a smoking heap.

With the safeguards down, Sorine and I went to town. Apparently the dwarves thought a giant fire robot was enough security, and not without good reason. That thing could have killed us pretty easily if not for enough electricity to light a small town. Ah, lightning, the great equalizer. Hadvar, not especially interested in smithing, picked up a few souvenirs for his uncle, and then spent the time Sorine and I were busy camped outside the forge, or going on food and booze runs. Seriously, the booze was important. You do not want to drink the water anywhere in a low-tech place without some alcohol in it to kill off fun stuff like cholera and dysentery.

Out of a general sense of adventure and no small amount of friendly competitive spirit, Sorine and I agreed to keep our respective projects secret until we were ready for a big reveal, each of us taking half the Aetherium and working the forge on alternating days. It was so hot down there that Sorine needed the rest days, and there was only enough equipment for one person at a time anyway.

After almost two months of seclusion and hard work, the day of unveiling came. We flipped a gold piece for the right to go first, and I allowed/caused Sorine to win. The inventress walked off and came back in an actual suit of full powered armor that would've made the Adeptus Astartes drool in envy. Told ya she's really, really good. We found a huge stash of ingots of this apparently super-strong but hard to work metal Sorine called ebony in the forge, which she used for the outer plating, and salvage from the centurion and the other ruin for the innards. With the armor, she had a highly-improved version of her epic crossbow, and doubtlessly all sorts of cool tricks in the armor itself. While she admitted that she'd used all her Aetherium for the suit's power source, she gave Hadvar and I scaled-down versions of her repeating crossbow. They're not as powerful, and have five-shot clips, but it's still probably the best ranged weapon in the world right now, so I'm not complaining. Now then. My turn.

I also created armor, and a new sword. Not with Aetherium, just ebony and dwarven metal filigree because you gotta look good. Regular plate mail is plenty for me, especially since I had no idea how to make something better with what I had. I also came out with a box full of goodies cradled in my hands. Yes, hands, in plural.

I have a prosthetic now! It even blends in with my armor, so you can't tell what it is while I'm dressed. Hah! Ahah! Muahahahahahahahahaahahaha! Now all shall grovel before my awesomeness, for I have two hands!

With a grin, I began unveiling my other creations to my awestruck audience. Behold: A powerstone! The Aetherium Boom Box! The Aetherium Monocle! The Aetherium Insoles! The Aetherium Flashlight! Ok, so maybe awestruck isn't the right adjective. Confused, annoyed, resigned, and appalled seem more apt. Sure, my new arm impressed them, but the rest of it? Sorine flat out told me I'd wasted priceless Aetherium. Maybe I should explain. Then they shall understand my genius!

I used the bare minimum of the metal to power my new limb, but that meant I didn't have enough for anything else big. The powerstone didn't need any Aetherium, just a lot of heat and pressure from the volcano. So, I made lots of small things. The boom box, the insoles, the flashlight and enough monocles for six people, in case we have more recruits. What makes them so awesome?

Well, the boom box will make the music in my head audible to everybody else! Clearly an essential item. Of course, though I didn't tell them this part, it also can send and receive radio, so if my ship is ever in range I'll be able to get home again once Alduin is pushing up daisies.

The insoles will help stabilize me for better traction and freer movement, even in my new, heavier armor. Maybe not the flashiest thing to have, but I used a similar magic item before I found myself in Skyrim. A little gravity manipulation does wonders for mobility. And a little is all I've got; I suck at earth magic.

The flashlight can create radiation anywhere on the spectrum; somewhat dangerous if misused, but fantastically useful. From simulated daylight for vampires or dark places, to infrared light to blind night vision goggles, to radio-foiling white noise, to the occasionally-vital Kryptonite radiation, this thing will rarely fail to be useful. It's another item that mimics something I am very used to having in normal times.

The monocles are the real gems, arm aside. I'm never going one-handed again! Each one is an adjustable headband and box of electronics that can fit under a helmet. They project a holographic display over the right eye (or the left eye, depending on which side the box is on). With magic. AND SCIENCE! AT THE SAME TIME! How cool is that?

Each one has a motion tracker, infrared sensor, and magebuster, and can tag everyone around you with color-coded threat levels in a heads-up display! For those of you who are ignorant, a magebuster is like a fuzzbuster, except it detects magic use rather than speed traps. The monocle's also got a laser rangefinder, and a shortwave to communicate with other people wearing one. Knowledge is power, and power is awesome. The thing will even give you a crosshairs and scope for those really long shots with a bow or crossbow! Scorn my creations now, why don't you? Fortunately, Sorine and Hadvar were much more accepting once I explained what my gadgets actually do. Also, they each took a monocle. Those things are really useful. Not all combat power comes from explosions and pointy things.

Now significantly better armed, Sorine, Hadvar, and I travelled to Fort Dawnguard, home of the Dawnguard (who else would be living there?), just outside of the city of Riften. We avoided the city proper, though. According to the locals, Riften is a festering cesspit of corruption and lamecloaks. Not interested in visiting that.

Isran, the Dawnguard's leader, was rather happy to have Sorine back, especially with a couple of capable hands in tow. Apparently, the headquarters of a rival group of monster hunters, the Hall of the Vigilants, was hit by a bunch of vampires, who are now investigating a cave called Dimhollow by the locals. He wants us to strike back and find out what the vamps want at the cave. This will hopefully keep them distracted from Fort Dawnguard until Isran can recruit enough people for an effective defense, as well as set the enemy's plans back. Long-term strategy. I like it. I may not be great at it myself, but I can sure appreciate a good gambit.

As we entered the cave, we heard voices up ahead. A couple of people, apparently security guards, discussing the fate of a Vigilant who got himself killed attacking them and how tasty his blood was. Ugh, definitely vampires. Hm, something just occurred to me.

"Hey, Sorine, Hadvar!" I stage-whispered, "This is probably a bad time to realize I need to ask this, but how do you kill Skyrim vampires anyway? Stakes? Decapitation? Silver? Fire? More Fire?" Somehow, the guards didn't hear us, nor did their weird mutant dogs.

"Hit them with anything," Sorine related, "You have to damage them enough that they'll turn to ashes, but aside from that, anything will work. Same weak points as a regular person. Fire is particularly effective, as are strikes to the brain or heart. But, you need to be careful to get both the first and last strike with a single attack. Vampires have a ranged, blood draining ability that can turn or kill you if you aren't careful. Don't let them make a single attack against you." Seems easy enough.

Hadvar kicked off hostilities by putting a crossbow bolt through the head of dude-vamp-redshirt. He's a better shot than Sorine or I, especially at these distances. The mutant dogs and chick-vamp-redshirt immediately charged us like idiots, and Sorine mowed down the dogs with her crossbow, while I bent the laws of physics a bit to rapidly close with the vampire, and put my sword through the convenient cleavage window in her armor. What an idiot, giving me a straight shot to her vitals! The point of armor is to stop the pointy bits before they reach something important! Putting a hole right above your chest is so very, very stupid. Being a Skyrim vampire does not give you natural armor, morons!

With the security guards out of the way, we opened the gate into Dimhollow proper. The place was an ancient, zombie-infested crypt that reminded me a bit of Bleak Falls, and evidently vampires and zombies do not get along well. The vampires were still in the middle of cleaning house, which gave me and my allies the perfect chance to ambush them. Nothing like a target-rich environment to keep one's spirits up. Between Sorine's firepower and Hadvar's skills I barely had to use any spells, too. Good help is endlessly useful.

Eventually the three of us came to a large open cavern filled with an underground lake. A big, circular structure sat on pillars high above the lake, connected to the land by a stone span. Below where we entered, three vampires and some thug were torturing a mostly-naked guy for information. Naked guy was apparently 'Brother Adelvald', a vigilant of Stendarr, and the vampires were led by a vamp named Lokil. Whatever. Not like the vampire's gonna matter once we kill him. Rescue time!

I hopped off the ledge and dropped to land heavily but unharmed in front of the vampires. The Aetherium insoles are proving their worth already! "Mind if I drop in?" Since no one around has seen any movies, I get to reuse all my old lines!

"You don't want to attack us," stated Lokil. What? Of course I do! But, now one of the voices doesn't… Oooh! He's trying to mind control me! If that sorta thing worked on more than one of me at a time I might be worried. Yes, I can turn insanity into combat advantage.

"I don't want to attack you," I informed him. Then I added a flaming head-butt that sent him staggering to the edge of the cliff. "Let's be friends!"

"What madness is this?" the vampire exclaimed, spitting out a fragment of broken tooth, "You are under my power! Stop immediately!" Oh, he did not just give me that setup. Well, he is asking for it…

"Madness? You call this madness?!" I yelled gleefully. You can't plan moments like this. "THIS! IS! SKYRIM!" Then I punched him in the junk. With my superhumanly strong mechanical arm. Right. In. The. Junk. He folded like a wet tissue, so I stabbed him a few times and stomp-kicked him into the lake, just like the Spartan in that campy movie. Some days it just doesn't pay to get out of bed. Or your coffin. Whatever. "Next?" However, no one else was available.

While I'd been busy, Sorine had followed me to crush the thug on impact with an earthshaking crash, before unloading a steam blast and some lightning into the second vampire while Hadvar fired a full clip of quarrels into the third. With the enemies taken care of, we cut Adelvald loose and Hadvar, the only one of us with any medical skill, started checking the monk over for wounds. Fortunately, he seemed largely fine. No missing digits, no serious blood loss. I guess they were waiting until he cracked before they ate him.

"Thank you so much for saving my life," Adelvald said, "I shudder to think what those monsters would have done to me, and I don't think I could have resisted their mental assault for much longer. But, if you don't mind me asking, who are you?"

"I'm Zoe Walker, battlemage and dragon-vanquisher," I introduced myself, "This is Hadvar, my trusty partner, and Sorine Jorard, master artificer. We're working for the Dawnguard. Well, Sorine's in the Dawnguard. The rest of us are more like interns. We help them with the vampires, and then they help us with the dragons."

"Dragon-vanquisher?" the vigilant asked, "Don't you mean dragon-slayer?"

"Not yet, but maybe someday," I informed him, "Only dragon I ever fought I couldn't kill, because I'm not dragonborn, and I didn't have an alternative way to kill them. So I convinced it that if it stuck around I was gonna eat it, and it ran away. Kind of hoping I don't have to do that again. Fighting a giant, immortal dragon nearly killed me. Now we might have a way to make dragons die permanently. But, we need allies. So we're trying to get the Dawnguard to help."

"You seek to slay that which preys on the citizens of Tamriel," Adelvald stated, "Your mission is not far from that of the Vigilants, and honestly, with all that has happened lately, the Daedra-worshippers we usually fight suddenly seem like much less of a threat. Vampires destroyed our hall and shattered our order. Dragons have claimed more lives in the past months than I have seen lost in a lifetime of hunting those who consort with Daedra. I would be honored if you would allow me to join your quest, that I might continue to protect the people of Skyrim and repay you for saving my life."

"I'm not necessarily opposed to that, but do you have what it takes?" I inquired, "You said you fight worshippers of the Daedra. Fighting people is pretty different from dragons, and kind of different from vampires."

"I'm pretty good with a warhammer," the monk replied, "And I have considerable skill in the arts of Restoration and Alteration. I can heal wounds-"

"Welcome to the team," I interrupted. A healer! Yes! Yes! Yes! Now if someone gets hurt we can help beyond some bandages and sympathy! This is great!

We searched the vampires and found Adelvald's armored robes and gear, alongside a hammer that according to him was enchanted to force low-level Daedra to return to their home in Oblivion. Pretty cool, if of limited utility. We supplied him with an Aetherium monocle. He supplied us with amulets of the Divine Stendarr. Stendarr is one of the local gods, and of the martial inclination. He does mercy, healing, destruction of abominations, defense of the helpless, etc. Supposedly, the amulets make you better at defending yourself, but I couldn't feel any magic in them. I'm not exactly a great enchanter, though. Whether that's true or not they look pretty spiffy, and it's usually a bad idea to scorn the team cleric's god.

With that sorted out, we checked out the structure above the lake. The place looked kind of like a Roman-style arena, with empty braziers scattered about. The architects had helpfully carved grooves in the floor to allow the braziers to be pushed around. A large button on a column protruded from the center of the circular space. Sorine, ever-curious about ancient mechanisms, prodded it, and the thing tried to stab her. I don't think the people who made it counted on armor over a foot thick, or arousing the curiosity of an actual engineer with spellcaster backup.

Between Sorine and Brother Adelvald they puzzled out the mechanisms and did… something. Lines of seemingly-harmless energy spread out from the button, following the grooves in the floor. According to the two, the enchantments on the device formed a lock. The first part was meant to draw blood, to confirm that the person who found it was alive. The second part required you to line up the braziers with the energy lines, to prove that you're sapient. Whoever hid this stuff wanted to keep it out of the hands of the vampires. So, of course we opened it. If the vamps came back with a pickaxe, all the elaborate locks would just go to waste.

As Sorine pushed the last brazier into place, a hexagonal monolith of dark basalt ground up from the floor. One side of the monolith then fell away, dumping the contents unceremoniously to the floor. The secret inside all the security was a woman, dark of hair and pale of skin. She looked kinda like one of those kitschy porcelain dolls you see in antique collections sometimes, except she was all dolled up in a red and black dress that looked like it might be armored. Of course if it was, the cleavage window pretty much made that irrelevant. Idiot. And her makeup somehow stayed perfect after being locked in there for Divines know how long, and she looks like a supermodel. I think I hate her. I don't even know her and I hate her.

"Ugh. Who are you? Who sent you?" Slag it! Even her voice sounds freakin' perfect. Ok, that's it.

"This will hurt slightly less if you hold still," I graced her with an evil grin as I drew my sword, "But either way it will be quick."

"Wait, what?" said pretty miss perfect, along with everybody else in the room.

"Divines, Zoe! You can't just go killing people for no reason!" Hadvar exclaimed, wrestling my sword away from me, "What's gotten in to you? Usually you at least pretend that other people's lives matter to you!"

"Why not?" What part of sociopathic mass murderer is he not getting here? I am not a good person. Though some of the voices might give me trouble sleeping for this… Wait a minute! Scrap! Psycho killer voice, stop hijacking my mind! I'll give you some nice bandits and lamecloaks later, so quit it! I can't just kill people because they make me feel insecure about my appearance by proximity. With her stupid perfect skin and perfect hair after being locked in a tomb for maybe centuries… "Fine. But I reserve the right to hate her to the depths of whatever bits of my battered, tarnished soul I still have a legal claim to." Hadvar accepted this with a sigh. He probably figured it was as good as he was going to get from me.

"Don't worry, ma'am," he turned to the lady we just rescued, "You're safe from the vampires now, so you don't need to stay locked up in there any longer. I'm Hadvar. This is Sorine Jorard, Brother Adelvald, and you've already been aquainted with Zoe Walker. We're with the Dawnguard, the order of vampire hunters. I assume you locked yourself in that ancient device to get away from the bloodsuckers out here?"

"Uh, no. I don't even know how long I was in there. I feel like it was a while though." The lady replied, "I'm Serana. Thank you for freeing me. Who knows how long I would have been trapped in that, uh, stasis spell if you hadn't come along. I really am curious how long I was out. Hmm, who's Skyrim's high king?"

"Jarl Elisef the Fair will be crowned by the moot soon enough," Hadvar stated confidently.

"Ulfric Stormcloak has a strong claim, though, and lots of popular support," Adelvald rebutted, "I may not support his racism and personal brutality, but you cannot deny he has charisma and a very good chance."

"I will be high queen! A dark queen! All shall love me and despair!" I assured her, "Bow before me, mortal!"

A voice backed by more ominous and incomprehensible chanting that no one else seemed to hear whispered in my ear as the shadows started writhing like snakes or maybe tentacles. "Miraak. Miiraaaaaak." However, since I hear creepy voices inside my head and see things that don't actually exist all the time, I decided to ignore it. Hope I'm not getting another voice, though. My head's crowded enough as it is.

"As you can see, it's actually a matter for debate," Sorine finished, gently cuffing me upside the head. "And rest assured that Zoe has absolutely no claim on the throne whatsoever. Why do you even say stuff like that?"

"Because she's delusional," Hadvar explained. See, I've got him so well trained he does exposition for me! Hadvar is awesome. But not as awesome as me. No one is.

"Great, a war of succession. Good to know things didn't get boring while I was out," Serana quipped, retrieving a big scroll from her monolith and slinging it across her back. "I hate to impose, but as long as you're rescuing me, do you think you could help me with something simple? My family has a castle off the northwest coast of Skyrim, or at least we did before I ended up here. Even if it's abandoned now, I need to go there to confirm some things. Could you… escort me? I'm certain I can come up with suitable compensation, if you need it."

"Uh, why not?" Hadvar offered, after exchanging glances with us, "We don't really have anything else planned, and Isran did tell us to deal with the situation in Dimhollow. That job isn't done until you're safe."

A few days walking saw us to the shore, where Serana's family home loomed far out in the ocean. The locals insisted the place was haunted, and we had to buy an old fisherman's boat just to get out there. I don't think he expected it back, but he was rather happy about the flaming sword I enchanted for his legionary son and the increased chances of surviving the war it promised.

The castle itself was gothic architecture at its finest. Spires, spikes, gargoyles, and black marble were everywhere. It was the sort of place that mad scientists and evil monsters set up shop in in those old horror movies. The sort of place that no monster ever lives in, because its just too obvious. The angry mobs always look in the creepy castle first! Better to live somewhere inconspicuous.

The gate is manned though, so at least Serana's family is still around, even if they won't recognize her. Except they do. The gate guard knows her face, despite the fact that by her own estimation she's been trapped in stasis in Dimhollow for several hundred years. Not suspicious at all, nope. Hadvar and I subtly loosened our swords in their sheathes and checked our weapons. Brother Adelvald suddenly developed a slight limp, requiring him to use his hammer as a walking stick. Sorine shifted her crossbow to a ready position, because who needs subtle when you have power armor?

Still, we enter the castle with Serana. It isn't like anyone but me would feel comfortable abandoning the damsel in distress in such suspicious circumstances. The gate opens into a staircase above a grand hall, garishly decorated but in a state of slight disrepair. Definitely getting a 1950s Universal Studios vibe here. We get challenged by some random chump right away, but once he recognizes Serana he starts groveling and is quick to announce us to the court. "My lord, Lady Serana has returned!" Serana herself leads us down the stairs, and- oh, slag.

There seems to be a feast in progress. A feast on recently dead or still living people. No silverware required, blood everywhere. What kind of stereotypical loser monsters are they? I guess there is such a thing as being too genre-savvy. The four of us who aren't a part of the crazy cannibal cult made sure to keep our backs together and weapons ready.

"My daughter. You have returned to us at last," says the guy at the head of the table, who stands up and discards the still-living person he was chewing on – scrap, that's nasty – before walking toward us, arms spread in a deliberately magnanimous gesture. He'd look real friendly if he wasn't still covered in the blood of his last meal. "I trust you have my Elder Scroll?" Serana twitches toward the big scroll she carried out of Dimhollow.

"After all these years that's what you ask about?" Serana sounds annoyed, but also like she was expecting the cool welcome, "No 'glad to see you', 'thank goodness you survived'?"

"Er, of course your continued existence is a most pleasant surprise," He awkwardly bluffs, before turning to us, "Greetings, strangers. I am Harkon, lord of this court. I would thank you for returning my… precious daughter and my Elder Scroll to me." He gives the impression that his priorities are the other way around, though… "By now my daughter will doubtlessly have told you what we are." Uh, no, she didn't.

Think Zoe, think fast! They aren't vampires, because they're actually taking bites out of people. Not zombies or ghouls, they're too coherent for that. A reclusive cannibal cult? That just sounds cheesy. No way.

"She didn't tell us a thing, but I figured it out anyway," I told him, "It's obvious. You're communists!"

I love that moment when absolutely everyone turns toward me and gives me that flat, toneless "What?" It makes my immortal life worth living like few other things.

"Don't feel bad that the glorious revolution didn't turn out so well, and you're having to eat each other to survive," I consoled Harkon, patting a part of his shoulder not stained with blood, "After all, we can't all be the next Lenin, and there are some critical flaws in the Marxist system. When everybody has equal shares of the responsibility for the means of production, everybody slacks off, assuming somebody else will do the work. Then no food gets grown, and you fall to cannibalism to survive the harsh Skyrim winter. These things happen when you follow an economic system built on fallacious but well-meaning assumptions. The sad fact is that human nature can't handle collective ownership of anything important or valuable. Honestly, your best bet at this point is to cover up the cannibalism and reintegrate into capitalist society. I mean, sure the system isn't perfect, but at least you'll have a chance to fill your basic needs that way… What? Come on, you can't tell me you didn't understand that! This is basic sociopolitical theory, people!" Ok, now the blank stares are getting slightly creepy.

"Well, I only understood about half of that, and I'm pretty sure I'm the only person here who attended a university," Sorine told me in her best 'talking to crazy people' voice.

"We're vampires! The oldest and most powerful vampires in Skyrim," Harkon made a visible effort to pull himself out of his me-induced confused haze, "And the only gift I can give of equal value to my daughter and the Elder Scroll is my blood. Take it and you will walk as a lion among men-"

"I have a counterproposal," I butted in, allowing my hair to ignite. So they are vampires. Just weird ones. "It's called 'Everything dies… again!' It's the part where I start setting you slaggers on fire." I tapped the Aetherium boom box with a sparking finger, and the sound of mariachi trumpets and acoustic guitar filled the air.

"What in Oblivion?" Once again, confused Harkon is confused, "Where's that racket coming from?" Oh, he did not just insult my tunes. Before, I wanted to kill him for being an abomination. Now, it's personal.

"Love… is a burning thing!" My voice rang out clear and bright against the gloomy atmosphere, "And it makes a fiery ring." I allowed the flames from my hair to sheet down my body, concentrating around my hands and feet. "Bound… by wild desire. I fell in to a ring of fire!"

"What the- Kill her!" Harkon screeched at his minions. Wow, that generosity dried up fast. Fortunately, he already let me start my invocation. Big spells are always easier with a focusing chant. But, pseudo-latin gibberish is boring. Classic tunes are just part of what makes me so much cooler than the average spellslinger.

"I fell in to a burning ring of fire! I fell down, down, down, and the flames… went higher. And it burns, burns, burns, in the ring of fire…" I slammed a fist into the ground to emphasize the lyrics, blowing the vampires back with a radial blast of fire and concussive force. "That ring of fire!"

"What the hell?" Sorine and Adelvald both asked Hadvar as one. Well, the monk said heck. I guess they assumed Hadvar knew me better.

"I have no idea," Unfortunately for them, Hadvar doesn't really understand me any better than they do. The perks of being unpredictable. "She just does this sometimes. On the other hand, last time she tied a dragon in single combat, so…"

"The taste… of love is sweet. When hearts… like ours meet!" I flattened out my left hand, fingers together and extended, and thrust the flaming, metal limb into a nearby vampire's torso. The greasy bastard went up like dry wood. "I fell for ya like a child! Oh, how the fires went wild!"

As the blaze around me intensified, Hadvar and Adelvald quite sensibly sought refuge to the lee of Sorine, who dropped the visor on her helmet and checked the seals on her armor. "I fell into a burning ring of fire! I went down, down, down, and the flames swept higher!" I gathered the heat into a single, glowing ball of doom. When everything's on fire, my music shall be appreciated! All shall bow before me! "And it burns, burns, burns, in the ring of fire…"

Harkon, missing his eyebrows and hair and smoking slightly, came staggering out of the inferno I'd been building up since the music started. With a slightly manic look in his eye, the lead vampire made an arcane gesture and suddenly the four of us who weren't undead found ourselves elsewhere. Teleportation, true teleportation is so very overpowered.

My target-rich environment suddenly gone, I had to put my full attention into suppressing the giant fiery explosion. I'm pretty sure Sorine could have shielded my friends from the worst of it, but there's no reason to test that out now. But, the big boom is finally under control, and- what was that?

I recognize that roar. And my suspicions are confirmed by Sorine's understandably panicked cry as she recognizes the source.

"Dragon!" Oh, slag.


End file.
